Convergent
by E. Laine Sparrow
Summary: *Spoiler Alert: Do not read unless you have finished Allegiant!* Convergent begins the day after Allegiant ends. Conflict with the Fringe rebels looms and Tobias must avert another war, facing unexpected obstacles-and discoveries-along the way! *Disclaimer: The Divergent world, and it's characters, are the original creation of Veronica Roth-and I wanted to spend more time in it.
1. Chapter 1

TOBIAS

I stare at the pile of files on the desk and sigh, drumming my fingers briefly against the edge of my chair, agitated. I am not used to so much paperwork. Endless paperwork. But Johanna Reyes and I are still catching up, navigating the ins and outs of politics in the larger government we now find ourselves a part of. It's a lot of work. Normally, I'm glad for the distraction.

Today I push myself away from the desk and walk to the window behind me. I take a deep breath as I step closer to the glass and let my eyes scan the skyline.

It's lighter in this office than the one I used to work in. The control room in Dauntless headquarters. Dark and dank. I could sink into it. Hide when I wanted to. There are windows all over this building, and the light exposes everything. The air feels thin, even though we are inside, and I begin to feel shaky. So I quickly move back, just a step or two. The queasiness eases. Some things haven't changed, and probably won't, I smile wryly.

Still, I stand up straight, and tall. Determined to face the things that _have_ changed. I will be brave. I_am_ brave. Then I wince as my shirt grazes my chest, and I remember to roll my shoulders forward slightly. Breathing room. The fabric shouldn't be brushing the raw skin too much. I close my eyes, tight.

I got another tattoo yesterday. The day we scattered her ashes. Zeke wasn't so sure when I told him what I wanted after I'd hit the ground and finally caught my breath. But to his credit, he sat with me anyway, cracking jokes and smiling and making every possible attempt to lift my somber mood as I stared at the needle boring black ink into my flesh.

It's the last one I intend to get. So I wanted to make sure it was perfect. And, I admit to myself, I didn't want to miss a moment of the pain, as much as I understood and appreciated Zeke's efforts to distract me.

Maybe he's right. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to carve her into me permanently, when I should really be letting her go by now. But I don't care. She _is_ a part of me.

My eyes drift to the Hancock building, unwittingly searching for evidence of her long-scattered by the wind. I lift my eyes to the clouds and then turn back to my desk, brushing my fingers over the spot. Seeing but not seeing what is marked there forever. A bird. Just like the ones that flew over her delicate collarbone. A bird, just like her. Never far from my heart, but flying free.

I hope that she is. I hope that she is.


	2. Chapter 2

I open my eyes expecting to see the same woman who greeted me just moments ago. Dressed in a sleeveless gray shirt riddled with bullet holes and stained red-brown with dried blood. Hints of a mixed past. Dauntless and Abnegation and something else, too. Something farther back than that. It's there but I can't reach it. Just hints. Hints of a person I barely knew. A person I'd just begun to discover. She had come to meet with me. My mother. Where is she?

I blink my eyes rapidly, trying to focus. But everything is still blurry. And bright. Too bright. Garishly bright. I try to focus again. I don't see her. And then I realize why. My eyes finally process the vision before me, above me. A light, directly overhead. I close my eyes to escape it but it burns through my eyelids and I see orange instead of black.

Where am I? I am not where I expected to be. I know that much.

I test my limbs, starting with my fingers and toes. I have sensation in my skin but dull numbness in the extremities themselves. I can't move. At all. So I focus on what I can _feel_. Something cold and hard beneath me. Cool air against bare arms and legs. A material skimming my thighs.

More, there must be more.

I push myself. Something rigid digging into my ankles. And my wrists. I command myself to strain against it, but nothing happens. I can feel my pulse pick up as my frustration rises. I try again, and nothing. This is no simulation. A simulation cannot hold me. Too many have tried—and failed. This is something else entirely. My mind cannot be trapped—but my body can.

Anger now. I hear a loud beeping, matching the mad rhythm of my racing heart, screaming for freedom. Answers.

I hear more. Movement. A scraping on the floor. And then a low, excited voice calling out, "She's awake."


	3. Chapter 3

TOBIAS

It's been an hour and I'm still staring at the jumble of words on the first page of the file open in front of me. I run my hands over my face, frustrated. Yesterday took a greater toll on me than I care to admit, to anyone else, at least.

Christina sent me a message this morning. Casual. Just to check on me. I haven't replied yet. I also ran into Zeke in the cafeteria earlier this afternoon. I hadn't felt like eating, but I hadn't wanted to be entombed in this too-quiet office either. He pretended to be surprised at finding me there, but I didn't buy it. I probably worried him with my obsessively-intense tattoo session last night. So we had a too-quiet lunch at which I paid for food that I don't remember tasting, then he clapped me around the shoulders and gave me _that look. _That look that I hate.

There are some days that aren't so bad. Days when I feel strong. Days when I forget, momentarily, and relish a fascinating discovery about our new world or enjoy the satisfaction of making headway in my work. Days when—how had Christina put it almost two and a half years ago? Days that don't suck. Days when I feel like I've become, or at least, am becoming, the man she believed I could be. I sigh. The man she believed I already was.

The flip-side, is that those good days can so easily turn into hard ones. Because she isn't here to share them with me. I don't get to see the pride and confidence in her eyes. That look that _she _gave me, that there was no one else in the world like me, no one else in the entire world that could do the things that I do. I want _that_ look.

What is the point, I wonder, of knowing that I can be, _am, _that strong, whole person, if she isn't here to benefit from my strength? If she isn't here to sharpen me while also, somehow, softening my edges. If I'm honest, some days I feel more broken than I was before I ever met her. Broken in different ways, in different places.

I exhale forcefully. I'm tired, and at this moment, I'd give anything to be somewhere else rather than stuck in this chair.

I swivel around and stare out the sheet of glass before me. I want—_need_—to be out there today. But I can't. Because Johanna always insists that at least one of us maintain a presence in the city office during the day. She prefers to divide her time between the city and the Amity compound. Well, what used to be the Amity compound. It's a good second base of operations, actually, being midway between the city and the Bureau, which now houses a small division of the Department of Agriculture _and_ happens to be the airport. I shudder involuntarily, at that.

I prefer to be out. A direct liaison between the government and the people. I go to every sector of the city. I have even been to Milwaukee, the nearest major city within driving distance. I also, sometimes, go to the Fringe.

There are still grumblings of unrest there. People who don't think the memory wipe of the Bureau was sufficient payment for the oppression they faced for years, generations. I don't necessarily disagree with them, but it's my job to be diplomatic, now. To seek peaceful resolutions. And, I've found, most people just want to be heard, to air their opinions, to feel like they matter. That's what I do.

I smile, slightly. That's what I give them. But not today. Johanna is in the Capitol. Washington, D.C. Or what's left of it. I've seen a few pictures, but I'm sure they can't possibly do justice to the gleaming white grandeur that used to characterize that city.

Most of the old official buildings, including the one called The White House, are irreparably damaged. And some were reduced to rubble long before my time. Representatives meet in another, smaller building instead. Johanna has invited me many times to accompany her. But that would require flying.

My name may have been Four, once, so named by my Dauntless-initiation instructor Amar for having only four fears. A record, as far as the Dauntless knew. But those simulations took place before I knew about the existence of airplanes, and I'm certain that if I'd known, they would have featured me plummeting from the open door of one of those death machines instead of from the heights of various tall buildings featured along our skyline. So nothing will induce me to climb into a flying metal canister, no matter how expedient as a method of travel.

We are slowly, after all, becoming acquainted with all the technological advances we missed, sheltered in the experiment that was Chicago. And most of them are exciting innovations I am eager to welcome. Flying is simply not one of them. I am not ready.

The phone on my desk rings and I automatically tense. I am not exactly ready for that either.

One of the first jobs tasked to engineers after the peace treaty and influx of outside workers was the repair of telephone lines. Zeke loves it. I would rather keep using the radio system, for some reason. But depending on the sensitive nature of the message, callers often prefer the phone to the sometimes-unreliable radio channels, especially if they want to keep that sensitive information private.

I have no idea what grave they exhumed these relics from but, I'm told, they are better than nothing. I snort. I am also told that when the funds are available, we'll get the phones most other big cities have. Wireless phones. It would be more like the radio, so I'm looking forward to that. Of course, I heard that from a politician. And, like my mother, I don't trust politicians. I'm just an assistant, so I can say things like that, I smirk, as I wrap my hand around it and lift the receiver to my ear.

"Hello?" I say clearly, willing myself to be, sound, confident.

"Four? Er—Tobias?" Amar's voice crackles over the line, and I smile more broadly now.

"Amar!" I say, more grateful than I expected to hear a familiar voice. "What's up?!"

"We need to meet," he says grimly.

"Oh." I can't help feeling surprised. "Sure. When? What about?"

"As soon as possible, and I'll fill you in when I see you. Trouble at the fringe today," he says tersely.

I look at my watch. Thirty minutes until I'm free to leave. I exhale in relief. Johanna probably wouldn't mind if I left early, especially for something important, but, in spite of my general lack of motivation and sullen mood today, I take my job very seriously. I'll stay until the end. I always do.

"I'm leaving the office in thirty. I'll catch the first train out to the edge of the city. Less than an hour?" I ask, my knee already bouncing, already straining toward the door and everything outside it. I can almost feel wind rushing past my face as I lean into it, hanging just far enough past the invisible plane to make the other passengers on the train uncomfortable. I bite my lip, waiting for his reply.

"Sounds good. George and I will meet you near the drop off," he says before I hear a click on the other end of the line.

He must be preoccupied. Amar is normally more upbeat. And much more talkative. I wonder what happened to warrant an immediate meeting. I shrug and stand up, pacing briskly around the desk. Whatever it is, this is something I know I am ready for, and the thought makes me feel more alive than I've felt in days.


	4. Chapter 4

TRIS

Sometime later, my eyes open again. I am still disoriented, but more clear-headed than before. I feel tingling in my lips, chin, fingers, and toes. My face no longer slack. My atrophied muscles no longer so sluggish. I will my hand to move from its limp, curled position on the same hard table, and the fingers extend slightly. I feel the corner of my lip pull upward. A determined smile visible only in my mind's eye. I carefully open my mouth and run my tongue along my lower lip. Testing. So dry, cracked. I try to speak. But nothing except a low croak comes from my parched throat.

Quick steps answer my call and I feel the weight of a hand on my arm. I hear a strangely familiar voice say, "Hello Tris."

I strain my eyes toward the sound, but I can't register a face. Obscured by a halo of bright light, all the features are blurred. My eyes roll backward and I blink, trying again. I focus lower, on a dark line. A string. Against flesh. I squint and look up again. Seeing. Remembering.

Matthew.

I am stunned. I feel my stiff hands clenching at my sides, and I swallow, painfully. Slowly opening my mouth again I whisper roughly, "Where?" A dry cough racks my chest and I repeat, "Where? Why?"

He drags a chair across the floor and positions himself next to me. I can't decide if I want to inch away or jump off the table, grab him by that string and demand answers. But I can do neither.

"Why?" he asks calmly. He tugs at the string around his neck, drawing my eyes to the movement. Then he twirls it absently between his thumb and forefinger. He continues, straightforward, "Isn't it obvious? Before you were shot, you resisted the Death serum. Something completely unheard of. No one had done it before..."

His voices trails off as he notes my furrowed brow and confused eyes. _I was shot? When was I shot? How long have I been here? _I feel an urgency rising in me, verging on panic. Except, I rarely panic. I keep the wildness contained in my eyes. But he sees the widening, the dilating, and sits back in his chair.

"Maybe I should go a little farther back." He picks up a plate of glass I hadn't noticed and taps it with his finger repeatedly before beginning. "The Bureau had planned an attack on the city of Chicago. That is, the experiment where you used to live. There had been so much violence already and it was on the verge of another destructive uprising. So...they were going to release a memory serum into the atmosphere and clean the slate. Start over._ Reset_, as they called it."

He swipes the glass with his finger every few seconds, quickly scanning the images and words as they fly by. His eyes flick back and forth between my face and the screen as he talks. Watching me. Evaluating me. Considering how I am—processing.

"You—?" I try, still hoarse.

"I was against it," he assures me with a nod. "Wrong. No question. But they couldn't see past their blind ambition and misplaced loyalty to the experiment. They thought—David thought—allowing the revolution to continue would just waste too many lives. Too much—important genetic material."

I struggle to remember. To frame his words in mind. _Experiment. Genetic material. _

"I—?" I choke out, agitated.

Matthews rests the glass on the edge of the table and leans forward, placing a warm hand on my shoulder. I cringe. At least, I feel like I'm cringing.

"Tris," he says in a reassuring voice. "I'm going to tell you everything. There's no need to exhaust yourself," he says in a soothing voice, trying to placate me.

"Why would—?" I manage in fits and spurts before he interrupts me, some of the patience gone from his eyes, replaced by a blank, flatness.

"You forget," he says, pressing on my shoulder more firmly. "I know you. We all knew you. We watched you through the live video feed at the Bureau every day. I saw you in Erudite headquarters with Jeanine Matthews. You were curious, in spite of yourself. You couldn't help it. You were about to die but you still _needed_ to know," Matthew explains, becoming more animated as he reviews this part of my history, _my_ life, parts that are infuriatingly fuzzy. Things I still don't remember—yet.

I frown slightly and he sees the question on my face. "You needed to know what made you different," he continues, "and Jeanine agreed to give you that information—after a series of unnecessary manipulations on both sides," he digresses, disapproving. "I don't see the need for that. So I'm going to tell you what I already know you want. I see no harm in it. In fact, it might help us along," he smiles, as if talking to himself.

He looks at me pointedly and lowers his eyes, a little condescendingly, I think, and says, "So just listen. I promise, I'm going to tell you _everything_."


	5. Chapter 5

TOBIAS

They are waiting for me when I arrive. George is leaning against the front of the black truck, and Amar is sitting on the hood. Dusk is already settling around them and, though Amar appears to be lounging comfortably, I can tell his body is tensed. Always prepared. It's not a habit any former-Dauntless is likely to lose. He jumps down at the first sound of my approach and doesn't relax until our eyes meet. Then he nods at me and comes forward with his hand extended.

"Tobias," he says in greeting, clasping my hand with his own and then slapping my shoulder with the other. "It's been awhile."

We walk back to where George remains propped against the truck, and I casually take the spot next to him, settling in. I rub my hands together, knowing Amar will jump in when he's ready.

"There was another demonstration today," he says, matter-of-fact.

"You mean riot?" I ask calmly.

"Demonstration," Amar corrects firmly. "Mary and Rafi are still very active in the fringe, though they always seem one step ahead of us. It's not that I want to arrest them," he admits, running a hand over his head in frustration, "but we need to come to some sort of—understanding. And soon."

He looks at me, and I can see the genuine concern on his face. "I'm sure you know there are still people, mostly in the Fringe, who aren't happy with the way you resolved the situation with the Bureau. They feel your reset solution was a little—merciful."

I nod and sigh heavily, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans. "Yes. They would prefer a solution that incorporated more—retribution."

"They're spreading the truth about what happened and—," Amar hesitates and continues carefully, "and the truth about how one of the 'rebels' who sought to prevent their attacks was killed in the process."

My entire body stiffens, which doesn't go unnoticed, by anyone. George coughs a bit too loud. Amar eyes me warily, kindly, and I see _that look_ again out of the corner of my eye. My lips draw into a firm line and I ask roughly, "And?"

"And," Amar says, "they are unhappy with the measure of lenience the Bureau workers received because of the story your team concocted. The story about it being an accident."

"Don't you think I know this?!" I say too loudly, frustrated. No, angry. I yank my hands from my pockets and push away from the truck. "But we didn't have time to come up with multiple contingency plans! We had to act fast. We had to do what we were able to do to stop the resets, even if it wasn't the ideal choice. What good would it have done to slaughter everyone in the whole compound? That wouldn't have been right!"

"Are you trying to convince me—or yourself?" Amar asks quietly.

I step towards him and then catch myself. That's not how I handle things. Not anymore. I take a deep, deep breath. "Don't you think I wish with everything in me that David wasn't still limping around that compound? I would have killed him myself. I would have," I trail off.

_I still might_, I think.

"I know," he says. "And I wasn't trying to upset you. I just want you to know that this isn't going away. It's spreading. There's always going to be disgruntled people to latch on to a cause like this, especially one so," he pauses, "personal, to a lot of people."

"This isn't new information, Amar," I spit, angry at the feelings, thoughts, resurrected inside me. "Why did we have to meet about this?"

"Because ever since I found out the truth, after having lived at the Bureau, unaware, for two years, it's been very hard to trust anyone in the government," Amar says in a hard voice.

"Amar, technically, _I'm_ in the government," I say almost wearily, flopping back against the truck so heavily that it groans and rolls with the impact of my weight. "And _you_ enforce on behalf of the government!"

"No. I guard. I protect. I view it differently," he counters firmly, arms crossed over his chest, flicking his eyes at George. "But that's not what I mean, anyway. I mean I don't trust them with the truthful dissemination of information. Outside workers repaired those telephone lines," he says, letting the words hang in the darkening, cool air.

"Yes," I agree, conceding his point while kicking at the gravel and dirt with my foot. "But we have no reason to think that the government, the broader government, is against us being—successful—here."

"Perhaps," Amar says carefully.

George finally speaks up quietly. "What we're concerned about, Tobias," he says, "is their possible response to the increasingly frequent and increasingly violent—demonstrations."

I look at them both questioningly. This is _not_ new information to me. I still don't understand the urgency. Amar sighs and walks to the back of the blackened truck. I hear the distinct rustle of the heavy tarp being shoved aside and the sound of his familiar footfall as he returns—different on dirt than on cold Dauntless stone. Muted.

It's still strange to me some days. I often miss those stone floors. There was a brazenness we all had. Living there wasn't easy, but it was straightforward. You couldn't hide much. Though we all certainly tried. In a lot of ways, I succeeded, until—.

Amar shoves a bottle into my hand. I can't see what it is but I eagerly twist off the top, not caring. I bring it up to my lips and toss my head back, glad for the break in the tension, the break in my—and then I almost gag as the bubbly, sickeningly-sweet liquid hits my tongue and surges toward the back of my throat. I don't know what chokes me more, the drink or the memories.

I cough loudly and Amar smacks me on the back repeatedly, laughing. I wipe my arm across my mouth to stop the sugary fizz dribbling down my chin and squint my eyes at him. Laughing?

"Listen," Amar says, taking a long drink, clearly feeling relaxed by the comic relief. _Great_, I cringe, pretending to take another myself. "Here's the thing. We know that the big guys were getting ready to shut down all the experiments because things were getting out of control, here. That's what made David so desperate."

"So," George adds, deftly nudging Amar's elbow as he brings the bottle to his mouth again and misses entirely. "What's to stop them from coming in here if they decide _we_ can't keep things under control either?"

George grins as the liquid slops all over the front of Amar's shirt and he looks up in disbelief before a wicked smile spreads across his face. Amar lunges for George's shoulder and knocks him into me. _Seriously guys_? I think. I would be amused except now I actually want to know where this conversation is headed.

"That's a real possibility," I say over their laughter. They catch my stern look and try to reign themselves in.

"Ah, Four, always so serious," Amar sighs with a light smile.

"To be fair," I say, screwing the cap back on the mostly-full bottle in my hand, "you started it. You asked me to come here. Serious, is what I'm good at. What is it you want me to do?"

"I don't know exactly," he shrugs with a frown now. He runs his hand over his head again, a sign I know he's deep in thought. "You need to have a heightened presence here. I know that much."

"I can talk to Johanna about that," I say, trying to hedge the excitement I feel pushing on my chest, aching for release. This is just what I've wanted, just what I've needed. A reason to be out more. Busy. With real work, not the work that just keeps one occupied.

"The point is," George says, "if you really want a diplomatic resolution to the conflicts here, instead of a more—forceful one—you can't sit around waiting for the perfect opportunity. There is no perfect opportunity. The time is now," he nods, and Amar nods in agreement.

_Yes, that's the thing_. I agree, to myself. I guess the time is now. So what am I going to do?


	6. Chapter 6

TOBIAS

I fumble through my keys outside my apartment, unable to find the right one. Like it keeps slipping through my usually-sure fingers. I exhale forcefully and chew on the inside of my cheek in frustration. I lean my shoulder into the door with a heavy thud as I start over, more slowly this time. Being deliberate lessens the odds of careless mistakes, I remind myself.

Sometimes I feel like an initiate again, in this new life.

Suddenly, the door swings open, and I stumble headlong into the room, just barely regaining my balance instead of sprawling unceremoniously onto the floor. Yes, just like an initiate. Unaware and unprepared.

I stand up straight and tall, staring around wildly. Ready. _In spite of appearances_, I grimace, clenching my teeth together so hard I can hear grinding.

Statuesque and almost equally wild-eyed is Evelyn, hand still grasping the door handle firmly. I huff and smooth out my shirt with my hands, trying to salvage my dignity and keep my lips set in a line. She would be hurt to see a frown. My posture relaxes. A little.

She drops her hand and rushes toward me. "Tobias! Where—?" She stops herself a few feet from me and drops her outstretched hand awkwardly. This is how it is with my mother and me. We still don't quite know how to be around each other in a normal way. What is normal, after all? We never had that.

I shrug and roll my head around my neck until it cracks. "Evelyn," I say, not too harshly, but not too warmly either.

She gestures toward the table behind me, and I turn slightly, just enough to see the partially-filled plates on the table and empty cans on the counter. Ah. Dinner. A gnawing sensation claws at my stomach even as the thought registers. I wonder, in passing, how long she's been waiting for me. I think about apologizing, but I'm not used to being responsible to anyone other than myself, to having anyone around to worry about where I am and when I come home. "It's okay," comes out instead.

Evelyn just nods, and I follow her to the table, pulling out one of the chairs more roughly than I'd planned. So I intentionally try to ease my body into it with a little more grace, if I could be said to have any of that. In my preoccupation today, I forgot she would be here, but I don't want her to think I'm angry she is.

We poke at the warmed-over mush in silence. It resembles a mixture of chicken and faded vegetables with some kind of thick broth. I'm not much of a cook, myself, and the cupboards aren't well stocked. Just what I need to get by. So, to be fair, she had very little to work with. And now it's cold. But we've both eaten worse.

"How was your day?" I venture, struggling to pull at threads of the veil that separates us, before shoving a forkful into my mouth.

The corners of her mouth turn up slightly and she rests her fork on the edge of her plate. "It was fine. I spent most of the day getting reacquainted with the city. It looks—different—than the last time I saw it," she coughs quietly. "There have been some good changes. I'm glad they're working to refill the lake. I like that. Stood there awhile just watching the water, sometimes perfectly still and sometimes stirred up by unseen forces."

I look at her sideways, amazed that I'm still learning new things when she speaks.

A lot of times, I can almost guess what will come out of Christina's mouth before she opens it. She used to be Candor. What's inside her generally spills out—with a little tactful editing, now. So, if you know her, she's pretty easy to read. And I've spent a lot of time with her in the last couple years. Most of the time, I know, it's what I need to hear.

Zeke too. We came through Dauntless initiation together and, now, he's like an open book. Though he might not say the same about me. It's not how I am.

It's not how _we_ are. I watch Evelyn, lost in thought, and wait. Wait for another revelation.

She catches me watching her and looks, for a moment, unsure of herself, so she fills her mouth with some chicken mush and averts her eyes. It's strange to see her this way. Evelyn fought to gain control of her life for a long time. When she finally got it, she held on like a desperate animal, unwilling to relinquish it for anything or anyone. Well, almost.

She gave it up—her crusade to get revenge on my abusive father and eradicate the factions with her tyrannical, oppressive rules. She had everything she thought she wanted, and she gave it up, for me.

"I thought, after I get a job, maybe I'd find a little place over there. By the lake." She smiles. It looks nice on her.

I take another bite and say, curious, "What do you think you'd like to do?"

"Well," she says, putting one hand under her chin and drumming the fingers of the other on the table. "I'm not really qualified to do much."

"You have—management experience," I say helpfully, trying to keep a straight face.

Evelyn raises her eyebrows and presses her lips together in amusement. "Yes, I'm sure if there's another revolution in the works, I'll be at the top of the list to lead it." She sighs and lays both hands flat on either side of her plate. "Actually, I was thinking I might like to operate one of the trains. I'd like to be—free—to move about the city, and take other people with me," she says simply. Then she looks up at me, eyes wide, "Do you think they'd take me?"

I see the wildness behind her eyes. Needing to do something, anything, useful. Needing to be out. I nod. "I'll talk to Johanna about it. I'm sure we could find something. Maybe she'd even put in a good word."

Evelyn relaxes visibly, shoulders lowering as her entire body exhales with the release of her tension. She turns to me and asks with a small, knowing smile, "And how was _your_ day?"

I pretend not to know what she's really asking and stare at my plate of food, answering flatly, "Long."

Then she unexpectedly reaches out and puts her hand on my knee. I immediately shift slightly, creating distance, unnerved. Abnegation parents show hardly any overt affection for their children, especially not in a physical way. But Evelyn has not identified herself with Abnegation for years. And she was factionless, without strictly imposed standards of behaviors, for many years after that. She has changed. So have I.

She squeezes my knee firmly, and I feel the strength in her hand, drawing support from it. I am still moved by how such a small thing, just one point of contact, can communicate so much. The Abnegation were right to respect it.

I exhale heavily and force myself to shift back in her direction so that our shoulders almost rub against each other. Satisfied, she releases her hold on me, and I go on, "More trouble at the fringe. It's worrisome." I run a hand over my face and fiddle with my fork. "We'll have to do something, soon. And whatever that is, I want it to be _wise_. Effective. Different, than what's been tried before."

She nods and eats quietly. Happy to listen. Then a thought occurs to me and I set my fork on the plate too hard. It clatters loudly and startles her.

"If there _was_—," I hesitate, wary, "another conflict, whose side would you be on?"

Evelyn stops chewing and freezes before quietly saying, "I would think, we'd _both_ be for the people."

"Yes," I say firmly, folding my arms across my chest, "but there is a right and a wrong way to do it."

She nods again. We do that a lot. Sometimes you can say more in the silences than you can with words.

She pushes back from the table and takes her unfinished plate to the sink behind me. I can hear her moving around in my tiny, cramped kitchen, but I stay where I am. Thinking.

Finally, her footsteps move in my direction and I sense her presence behind my chair. I expect her to say "Good night" or to simply leave for the one bedroom she knows I will give her. But she puts that strong, calloused hand on my shoulder and says, "Tobias, I am on _your_ side."

Evelyn pulls me around to face her and I stare into her dark, steady eyes. Fierce eyes. "I should have said this a long time ago," she says, "but I didn't want to. And then, I didn't know how." She looks down as though she's ashamed of herself. Now she looks up, fearless. "I should have said that I'm proud of you."

I try to shrug her hand away. These are things that don't need to be said.

"No, listen to me, Tobias," she says forcefully, squeezing my shoulder. "There's more. I know _she_ shaped you in ways I never did, never could."

I gulp and feel burning in my eyes. I can't help it. I've spent most of the day avoiding this truth. But how can you separate it out? How can you deny that it's real? You can't. The truth is _always_ true whether anyone acknowledges it or not. And everything inside me testifies to it.

"You can say her name," I whisper, my lower lip trembling before I bite it, hard.

She moves closer so that she stands right next to me, and my shoulder brushes against her midsection. I don't flinch, though I want to.

"I cannot say that I'm proud of the man you've become, unless you know that I mean, the man Tris helped you to be," Evelyn says gently, placing both hands on my shoulders now. "She was good for you. Better for you. Better than _me_. And I felt threatened by that."

Evelyn holds my gaze for a second, unwavering, and then bends forward. But it's not until she is mere inches from me that I wonder what she's doing. I blink, stunned. She hesitates, just enough that it's noticeable, and then leans toward my ear. Evelyn closes the gap between us without touching me at all and whispers, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I ever tried to make you choose." And then she drops her hands and walks away.


	7. Chapter 7

TRIS

I am alone in the room, again. The white light still blinding me from above.

Matthew left, insisting that he would return to continue our—conversation—after I'd been attended to by a nurse.

My head is still weighed down, foggy and confused, but I can turn it and also feel my legs and arms now. I can move my feet and hands, and the nurse who just arrived—Beth—seems pleased. She checks my vitals and my reflexes. She tells me to lift my arm above my head, evaluating.

But I can't. I am exhausted.

"Why—?" I say hoarsely, struggling to lean my head forward.

Beth waves me back with a flutter of hands and rushes to a sink I hadn't noticed in the corner. She returns with a cup of liquid and, placing a hand under my neck, lifts me up just enough that I can take a sip.

Water. It feels _so_ good. I close my eyes and groan softly.

"Why can't you move?" Beth asks, continuing to fuss about me and tap intermittently at a glass screen she carries with her. "Is that what you want to know?"

I nod, grateful she understands.

"You've been on a low-dose paralytic to prevent damage in case you had a seizure or other adverse reaction. Now that you've regained consciousness, Matthew stopped the drip. You should continue to regain feeling, and function, in all areas of your body, by degrees," she answers me evenly as she removes a bag from a metal hook behind me and tosses it into a waste bin somewhere on the floor.

I eye the clear plastic tube still taped to my left hand and follow its line to a bag hanging on another hook.

"Well," Beth says, without waiting for the question, "until you're able to drink more on your own, you'll keep the IV in, just to regulate your fluid intake."

My eyes narrow and I frown. I don't like any substances going into my body, no matter what she says it is. "When can—?"

Beth cuts me off with another sip of water and says, "We'll be moving you over to a more comfortable bed. One that sits up! You'll enjoy that." She grins pleasantly, adjusting the speed of the IV. "And that will make it easier for you get moving again yourself. Drinking on your own and so forth. Then, once your legs are steady enough, we'll remove the catheter and start in on some basic physical therapy to regain your strength."

I cringe and stare at the middle of my body, which I don't feel very well, yet, and am glad that I can't.

"So," Beth says happily, tapping at the glass she's picked up again, "as soon as we get you upright in the new bed, we'll try a little food, and more liquid, with a cup!" She grins at me broadly, hands on her hips.

Her overly-peppy demeanor begins to grate on my already raw nerves, and I turn my head away.

She leans over me and says brightly, "And, if you're able to eat a bit and rest well tonight, Matthew will stop by in the morning to check on you and continue discussing your—situation."

I roll my head back to her and nod, already feeling more clear—and more motivated. "Yes," I croak. "Hun—gry." Cough. "Ver—y hun—gry."

"Well good!" Beth says, standing up and pulling the glass screen to her chest, quite satisfied with herself. "Matthew was worried you'd be too distraught to be reasonable," she says with a shake of her head before turning toward the door.

Distraught? I frown, fighting to string together coherent thoughts through the hazy muddle. Why would I be distraught? I probe at the images in my mind, sifting through the memories hovering near the surface. Before the woman in gray...before my mother...before the warm nothingness overtook me.

Pain. Sharp and sudden and permeating before the dullness...

A gun! An older man. In a wheelchair? Farther...

A young man with tousled hair and sad, scared eyes. I concentrate. I _know_ those eyes, the gleam of knowledge and curiosity. Like Matthew, earlier. But also...

Caleb! I exhale in relief. Yes! Caleb. My brother!

I feel an ache rising in me. Stealing over me. Pressing at my chest and my mind. There's more. I know it.

Another man. With dark hair. Intense eyes. I see a hooked nose over a crooked smile and black wrapping around his strong neck. _My_ arms wrapping around his strong neck. He says, "Good-bye..."

Tobias.

I hear another distant voice in the background. "Goodness. If I hadn't eaten in two and a half years, I know_ I'd_ be starving!"

I have no breath. Everything is in my throat and I strain desperately to rise from the hard surface, arcing my back as my face contorts, tears streaming from my eyes. My mouth opens—but nothing comes out.


	8. Chapter 8

TOBIAS

It's late when I toss myself on the worn couch in the small living area and unbutton my shirt so that it hangs open, letting air move over the stationary black bird on my chest. I'm more comfortable in t-shirts, but Johanna prefers that I wear something nicer to work. She says it projects the image that we take our job as representatives seriously. I don't necessarily disagree with her but—it's strange. A few years ago, this shirt would have told people I was an Erudite. Now it just tells people I work in an office.

I sigh and put my hands behind my head, staring down at the flames that curl around my ribcage. I do enjoy that my nice collared shirts can't hide all that I am, since my Dauntless markings peak around the side of my neck. An interesting combination of looks, I'll admit, but I like to think someone would take my measure and say, now, I know not only what you _can_ do, but also what you_ will _do. I smile to myself in the darkness. Probably another good reason not to go to Washington, though.

I slide my arms out of the sleeves and yank the shirt out from under me, tossing it toward the end of the couch. I used to be self conscious about my body, though I worked hard to maintain it. In Dauntless, you had to. I still do, because I choose to.

Zeke and I meet at the abandoned compound a couple times a week to spar in the training room, take target practice, or just beat up on the punching bags. They say old habits die hard. I say there's truth to that but, more so, as much as has changed in our way of life, it's nice to hold onto something familiar. To have something that stays the same, something that grounds you.

Besides, she—Tris—would have liked seeing me this way. A little more comfortable in my own skin.

My eyes slide from the crumpled shirt to the blue glass sculpture Evelyn—my mother—returned to me yesterday. When she gave it to me, she said it would do something special_ inside_ me. She could only have said that because it did the same for her. I wonder, would she have struggled with hatred and unrest for so long if she had kept it?

Now she looks relieved, and almost peaceful, finally. But also a little lost sometimes. Like she doesn't know what to do anymore. What do you fill yourself up with after you've let go of the things that burden you? The things that strangle you? What would I look like?

Before I abandoned my mother and her cause to venture outside the city, I put myself through my fear landscape one last time. The fourth fear I faced was watching Tris die—and being powerless to help her. I watched the blood flow from her mouth and the light leave her eyes. I watched her body go limp as I screamed her name, over, and over, and over.

I have kept my promise to myself and never entered the simulation room again. But I replay the vision in my mind. I experience it as though it was real. It _was_ real. Because it happened. I see it and ask myself if _this_ is how she looked that last day, that day when I wasn't there.

And then the waves of grief roll over me, again, and pull me under, drowning me in their depths. They are not the still waters of our newly remade city lake. And they are not the still, clear blue waters of my mother's sculpture. They are raging waters. How can I fight them?

I told myself after that simulation that all I had to do to overcome my fears was to not let them control me. I have suffered my greatest fear, so it can't control me any longer. But the pain does not go away. I don't want it to, because I don't want to forget.

I miss her.

I wish she was here, tracing her finger over these flames.

I wish I could feel her warmth against me.

I wish she were not flying free, somewhere.

I need her here, to talk to me. To weigh my impulses against her judgments. To balance my weaknesses with her strengths. To help me know what to do to avoid another battle.

We disagreed—a lot. We fought—a lot. But I needed that. I needed someone to push me, always believing I would rise to the challenge.

I admire the faint outline of the glassy curves before closing my eyes. One more day is ending. Tomorrow a new one begins. I whisper into the black, "Be brave."


	9. Chapter 9

TRIS

I wake, exhausted. Spent. My body feels hollow but my chest is on fire. How is that possible? My arms and legs feel bruised. My eyes are raw. I don't want to open them.

One thought registers, crystal clear. Tobias. If I'm here, and _so_ much time has passed, did something go wrong in the Bureau? And if he's not, here, did something go wrong in the city? I can't bear the thought. I want to burn it from my mind with the fire that rages in the rest of me.

I hear someone next to me, clearing their throat, and my eyes fly open.

It's only Matthew.

Hot tears well up in my eyes. I am spent, but angry. "Where's Tobias?" I ask, trying to keep the crazed edge from my voice. I know he will be more inclined to answer me if I can stay calm.

"We'll get to that," he assures me casually.

My eyes open wider, and I watch him with disgust, calmly sitting with his hands beneath his chin. He sighs and puts both hands on the edge of my bed, which I realize now has a rail.

That's right. They moved me. I am no longer flat, but propped up. Breathing is easier. My head is clear. I feel my body. I feel my ankles and wrists, still secured tightly, now to the bed rails. I remember a struggle.

"Where's Tobias?" I ask again, more forcefully this time, trying to control my panic.

Matthew ignores me and says, "So, what happened last night—let's not do that again. Okay, Tris?" He frowns as he pulls his own glass screen up onto his lap and taps it. "I'm sorry," he continues apologetically. He doesn't _sound_ sorry. "But you were inconsolable. Of course, I wouldn't expect a sedative to work well on you, but Beth didn't think about that, and that just made you more frantic," he shakes his head as though this is all a regrettable misunderstanding.

"Unfortunately, the aides were forced to hold you down until you were calm enough to be moved and settled without harming yourself—or anyone else," he says, looking down his nose at me.

I press my lips together. He is not going to answer me right now. But, if I play this right, maybe I can _make_ him.

He holds up a cup of water for me, and I drink as though I have never tasted it before. Matthew eyes me thoughtfully and produces a plate with some bread. He nods toward the food encouragingly. I think about defying him, but I know I need it. I also need him to think I'm cooperating. He relaxes, a satisfied smile spreading over his face. So I nod toward my restraints.

"H—how do you expect me to eat?" I ask dryly, staring expectantly at him and then back to the plate.

He sighs again and gets up from his chair. From a drawer on the other side of the room he procures a pair of clippers, and I wait as he methodically snips each of my restraints. When I feel the last one release me, I flip the plate in his face and launch myself off the end of the bed.


	10. Chapter 10

TRIS

I open my eyes and see Matthew next to my bed. I feel like I 'm replaying the same scene over, and over, and I am tired of it.

I blink away the confusion and try to bring my right hand to my face, but it catches, reattached to the bed rail. I stare at my left hand and find that wrist free, but bandaged.

Matthew clears his throat and explains, "We opted to leave the IV out after you ripped it from your hand by jumping out of the bed, but the site needed some attention." He shifts uncomfortably in the chair and I notice his hair is disheveled and shirt slightly askew, though it looks like he tried to pat it down.

I am vague on these details and lift my free hand to my head, which is sensitive and throbbing. There is a bandage on my forehead, also.

"You may have regained control of your limbs, Tris, but you haven't regained your strength," he says wryly. "And you won't need both hands to eat this," he observes, handing me another plate with a new piece of toast. "I'm hoping once I've explained everything, none of this will be necessary."

"What about Tobias?" I spit angrily, thinking seriously about throwing _this _plate at him, too. "Where is he? Does he know I'm here?"

"Not yet," Matthew replies, clasping his hands and pressing them to his mouth. "But, he will. As soon as I've done the test."

"Why can't he know now?" I ask, frustrated and overwhelmed. I want to cry, but I don't want Matthew to see me do it. I twist the bed sheet covering my legs into a warped tangle with my left hand and my knuckles turn just as white.

He looks at me, guarded, and toys with the string around his neck. "Because he probably wouldn't let me do it," he admits. "But I _will_ tell him. I will! As soon as we're done. I don't want to hurt you, Tris. I just want some answers that could help us all." He leans forward, urgent, now. Eyes shining. "I'm not like Jeanine Matthews or David. I don't seek knowledge at all costs. I value human life. That's what I want to protect! In fact, I saved yours!"

I have no idea what he's talking about, but he can see that he's peaked my interest. I release the bed sheet and consider the bread in my lap before picking it up and taking a bite. It feels strange to swallow, again, but hunger takes over and I am ravenous.

Matthew jumps up and presses a button by the door. More food arrives on a tray, and I settle in to eat. I am a little disappointed by how bland it all looks, but I guess they want to start me out slowly. Don't they know, I don't do things slowly? But I dig in, prepared to listen.

Assured that I will hear him out, Matthew sits back in his chair. "After I shot the gun into the ceiling at the Bureau, to create a diversion for you and Caleb, I ran. I ducked into the first abandoned room I could find and hid until there was no more commotion in the hall. When it seemed clear to leave, I went looking for you both, to make sure everything went as planned—or to help—if I could."

He stops and stares at me with wide eyes, willing me to read, and believe, his sincerity. "I saw some blood in the hallway, but nothing else. Then, when I reached the weapons lab, I saw you on the floor, not moving. I could see David across the room, slumped over in his chair and disoriented, so I pounded on the door and screamed at him to clear the vestibule so that I could come in."

Matthew runs a hand over his face and, for a moment, he looks very weary. He fiddles with the dark string again and says, "David was aware enough to follow my instructions and hit the right button. I heard the vent turn on and then the doors opened. When I rushed in, the first thing I did was go to you. I didn't know why you were there in Caleb's place, but I couldn't believe you'd made it through the Death Serum without the clean suit on. It shouldn't have been possible. It _is_ impossible," he digresses, his voice awed.

I see his hands shaking and he clasps them tightly, "But then I saw all the blood. And I just knew, I knew that David had _killed_ you. I put my hand on your neck, on one of the wounds and," he pauses, his face a mask of disbelief, "and I felt a faint pulse!"

I have stopped eating now, engrossed in the story, _my_ story. Matthew gets up, agitated, and begins pacing around the room. The words tumble out, rapidly now, as though he's been waiting a very long time to tell it.

"My first thought, of course, was to call for help. I knew you'd need medical attention immediately. But then, after observing David at closer proximity, I realized you had succeeded in releasing the memory serum. All of our medical staff had been reset. They hadn't lost the ability to perform their jobs permanently, but they were in no condition to treat you right after exposure. They were too dazed, and you clearly needed the best care," he says, wringing his hands as he paces, staring with unseeing eyes into the past.

"I thought, just maybe, I could stabilize you and have you transferred to a hospital somewhere. I knew it was a long shot. There was so much blood. It was everywhere," he says, looking down at his shirt. Remembering.

"I frantically tore through the stores of serums in the room and found a clotting serum and a paralytic. I administered the first to all your wounds, hoping to stop the bleeding. The second, I hoped would keep you stable in such a weakened condition, stop any convulsions. You were already unconscious," Matthew says, he voice trailing off. He presses a button by the door and calls for more food, although I have not finished the first tray. He doesn't notice.

"I really thought it was hopeless, but I dug through David's pockets—he wasn't in a state to resist me—and found his keys. Then I ran to his office and went through his desk drawer. I couldn't believe my luck when I found a list of his government contacts. I was ready to place the call for help, when it occurred to me, I'd have to give them a _reason_. A reason to go through a lot of trouble to spirit one wounded girl out of the middle of a disaster area." Matthew lifts his eyes to mine, and I stare back, blankly. Waiting.

Even if I could escape _right now_, I wouldn't.

He whispers, "Then I remembered, you had survived the Death Serum!" His eyes go wide and I can see the gears turning, running through the endless web of possibilities in his mind. He grips the counter by the sink with one hand and holds on tightly, as if he needs it to support the full burden of his weight. "I called the first person on the list who I thought would grasp the value of—looking into that—and proposed that they fly you to the best surgeons immediately. It wouldn't be difficult. The Bureau was in disarray. One small plane going in and out could easily go unnoticed."

"And then," Matthew says, pacing again, "when your survival was certain, we could unlock the secret of your immunity to the Death Serum!" He pauses, overwhelmed with excitement. "Think of what that could mean for combating disease, illness, aging!"

I realize my mouth hangs open and shut it unceremoniously. I chew on the inside of my cheek, uncomfortable, for some reason. "But, Tobias?" I ask, prodding, renewed anxiety blossoming in the pit of my stomach. I push the tray of unfinished food away.

Matthew rushes forward and sits back down in the chair. "When I got back to the Weapon's Lab—it had been only a matter of minutes—Caleb must have returned with help and they, finding your body in the state I described—unmoving, unresponsive, and cool to the touch—thought you were already dead. They had removed you to the morgue!" He runs his hand through his hair, clearly frustrated by the memory.

"The plane would be arriving shortly and everyone was already crazed with grief. I didn't know if you would survive the flight, let alone any surgeries. So I thought it best not to get their hopes up. If you made it through, I could easily call them with the happy news! And, if you didn't, nothing would have changed," he says calmly. I am disturbed by how he justifies himself with unquestioning faith in his own logic. "So I encouraged Tobias and Christina and the others to go ahead and say their good-byes."

"You conveniently left out that they might object to your other plan, your plan to test me. That sounds better than _experiment _on me, doesn't it?" I say coldly.

"Tris. Tris!" Matthew says, shocked, and pulls his chair closer to the head of my bed. "I didn't know if we would ever get that far. But I _saved_ you! I got you out and, against insurmountable odds, you survived the surgeries! Unfortunately, the trauma you suffered was such that you never regained consciousness—until now!" he says with a grin, as though he's waiting for me to thank him—or congratulate him!

He frowns now and picks at the string again. "Regrettably, the men who endorsed my proposal were impatient. They thought your recovery was too slow. They wanted me to expose you to a small amount of the Death Serum anyway, to see how your brain responded." He shrugs and won't meet my eyes. If he did, he would see me glaring at him.

"We released a very, very small amount of the serum into the air in your secured room. You managed to fight it off," he says in awe, again, "but, because you were unconscious, we just couldn't get a good read on what was happening. Your brain wasn't fully functioning the way it normally would be. And we couldn't observe anything. No doubt, it also delayed your recovery even more. I had no idea if you would _ever_ wake up!"

Matthew sighs. "Officially, the test was terminated," he says, rubbing his hands together and staring off into space. "_Unofficially_, I have one more chance."

He looks up at me. "They called me in from my office in Chicago as soon as you woke. We'll get it right this time. We'll get you healthier, stronger. Then, in a few weeks, we'll give you a direct injection of the serum and monitor everything. I have_ every _confidence in you, in the absolute certainty of our success." He smiles at me, relieved to have it all laid bare. As though, now, this is as good as over.

I regard him in silence. A scientist willing to take remarkable risks can be bad enough. A scientist who acknowledges no risk at all, is dangerous. I think about not eating, not exercising, not getting healthy. Delaying the forward motion of his plan. But I realize that would only be a temporary solution. He would get desperate. I have to get out, somehow. And to do that, I'll _have_ to be strong.


	11. Chapter 11

TOBIAS

I feel hot breath in my ear. "Wake up, sweetie," in a sing-song voice. My left arm shoots out into the dark and my fist hits its mark.

"Ouch. Ugh. Come on, man."

I grin into my pillow and mumble, "Pansycake."

I bite my lip. That's something Uriah would have said. I hear nothing but silence and then—

"I might have to hit you for that."

"You're welcome to try," I taunt, yawning. "Anyway, serves you right for sneaking into my apartment."

"Serves you right for giving me a key," Zeke retorts, his voice muffled by the fat lip I just gave him. "Now put some clothes on. You're making me blush."

He hands me the button-down stuffed under my feet at the end of the couch, but I grab it and toss it across the room. I'll put it away tomorrow. I heave myself to a sitting position, rub my eyes with my hands, and then blink until they adjust to the black.

"Where are we going?" I ask. Where we go makes all the difference in what I decide to wear, especially at night.

"Geez, princess. Go for something stealthy," Zeke whispers mischievously.

"Call me princess again and I'll remind you why they call me Four," I say, smacking him in the back of the head.

"_Called_ you Four," he says, mocking me. He fumbles with a small flashlight and shines it on his face. I see shadowy eye sockets, nostrils, and a gleaming white grin.

"_You_ still call me Four," I laugh quietly, retrieving a black shirt and matching black hoodie from another pile stashed at the foot of the couch.

"Yah, well, whatever. Let's get a move on. We're on the clock here," Zeke says, making a show of checking his watch.

"How about you learn to be quiet and don't wake up Evelyn?" I ask as we head for the door.

He claps me on the back, closes the door carefully behind us and says, "I promise not to wake your mom. I also solemnly promise to continue avoiding all serious conversations with you—ever. Sarcasm applies in all situations. It's my life motto."

"Agreed," I say. "Now don't trip over your own feet trying to keep up with me," I call before nudging him in the ribs with my elbow and taking the stairs to the right of my apartment by leaps and bounds.

It's not until we reach the street and break into a jog that he tells me what he's got planned. "Head for the parking lot three streets over. Got a truck waiting for us. Prepare yourself for an intense game of capture-the-flag!"

"Seriously?" I ask, excited, adrenaline coursing through my veins as my muscles pump my arms and legs faster and faster in anticipation.

"Your little sulk-fest at lunch today was really depressing for me, and I wanted to be cheered up, so I called in some reinforcements," Zeke huffs, trying to keep pace with my even strides.

My lips curl into a grin and we sprint the last hundred yards to the lone truck gurgling black smoke from it's exhaust pipe. "Best you could do?" I tease.

"You know it!" Zeke laughs, breathing heavily when we come to a stop. "Now get in the truck."

I see Shauna in the driver's seat and give her a short wave. She waves back and smiles, her face tired but indulgent. Zeke jogs around to the passenger seat, and I stick my head into the cab behind Shauna. I'm met by three sets of eyes, all wearing different expressions. Christina bobs her head, eyes wide and ready. Cara is the epitome of calm. And Caleb—Caleb looks unsure and nervous. I snort. Well, he ought to be.

Zeke looks back and catches my expression. "Hey, jump in the back already and hang on to the gear. I borrowed it from the training room and plan to return every last piece tomorrow."

I grin and grab hold of the side of the truck, plant my foot on the rear tire, and vault myself over and into the bed, landing with a loud thud. I hear Zeke's "Woot!" behind me and have just enough time to sit down before Shauna takes off, wind whipping and swirling  
around me as she picks up speed. We head for the place where we've always played. It was a Dauntless tradition, after all.

When we reach our destination, everyone piles out and stands in a rough circle, rubbing their hands together or shifting from one foot to the other in the cool night air. I dump the guns and other laser equipment in a heap in the center.

"Only four players?" I ask, already considering strategy.

"Shut up and make more friends," Zeke shoots back amiably. "Just think of it as a challenge. Right up your alley, Four." He starts strapping his gear into place and explains, "Shauna's here to validate the winner so—"

"Because it might not be the team holding the flag?" I interrupt, tightening my belt and pulling my gun over my shoulder.

"So don't even think about cheating," Zeke finishes, eyebrows raised. "That leaves an odd man out..."

"I'm just here to observe," Cara says, walking over to where Shauna stands supported by her leg braces and a cane. "But I'll be happy to analyze any strategic errors after it's over."

"Alright, I'm with Christina, then," Zeke says, tossing her a pack and belt.

"Awesome. I'd hate to ruin my winning streak," she says, smirking, and gives me a wink.

I turn to Caleb and throw him a pack and belt also, which he nearly drops. Everyone pretends not to notice and I raise my eyebrows at Zeke. "Sticking me with the Eru—lab tech, then?" I say lightly, ignoring the flustered look on Caleb's face and rising color in his cheeks.

"I figure you can practically win this game on your own, so now we're just about even," he laughs, blowing a kiss to Shauna. "Come on Christina!" he hollers, and they take off into the dark.

I ignore the familiar lines of determination on Caleb's face and concentrate on helping him fasten the rest of his gear into place. "Keep up," I say, handing him his gun. "We're already behind!"

We head toward the old amusement park. I've always considered it the best place to map out a team strategy. It used to be completely abandoned, but some enterprising individuals are refurbishing it small sectors at a time, now. I plan to avoid those parts. We round a corner and Caleb taps my arm, drawing my attention to a large metal structure looming in the darkness.

The Ferris Wheel.

I falter mid-stride and then regain my footing, coming to an even stop about fifty feet away. I stare up at its skeleton frame and don't realize Caleb is speaking until he's repeated my name multiple times. "Tobias? Tobias!?"

My eyes flick in his direction and I shift my stance away, hoping he'll follow me without question.

"Hey, Tobias!" he says hesitantly, but insistent, "that seems like a logical place to hide our flag." I say nothing and he continues. "It has the appearance of instability, so they'd likely avoid it. And it's high, so we could see anyone trying to climb it."

I stare at him without blinking. He's disconcerted by it, but I don't look away, and he stutters, "Well, I—I just thought it was a good idea."

"It _is_ unstable," I say flatly. "But why not?" I exhale heavily. I careened from the Hancock building yesterday. Why not climb the Ferris Wheel, again, today? What better way to master another fear than head on, by repetition?

Of course, I remind myself, I've tried that method already, and it hasn't worked, yet. I crack my neck.

"Great. So...should I—?" he asks. I give him a look of incredulity and he stops, either taken aback or offended. I'm not sure which. I sigh and roll my eyes. I know he's just trying to help.

"I'll do it," I say. "Here. Hold my gun." I shove it into his hands and jog purposefully toward the bottom of the ladder before I can talk myself out of it.

I place my hands firmly on the bottom rung, remembering the feeling of the rickety structure beneath my body. My chest tightens as I climb and my breathing becomes more labored. The wind whistles around me and the metal groans beneath me. When I'm about halfway up, I stop and close my eyes, willing myself to remain calm and steady. Focused. But then I start to feel dizzy, so I open them.

_This thing is broken_, I remind myself. _No need to push it_. I decide I'm satisfied with my position, quickly fixing the flag to the nearest scaffold before making the descent more rapidly than the climb.

When I reach the bottom I put my hands on my knees for a second and then run a shaky hand over my closely-shaven head. Caleb approaches, extending my gun toward me, and I grab it without looking at him. I stare up at the Ferris Wheel from my hunched position and Caleb asks, "Ever climbed it before?"

"Yes," I say. "Though I went higher last time." I don't wait for a response and take off for a slanting shelter to our right. It provides excellent cover and a full view of all incoming avenues of approach. We discuss strategy, which basically amounts to me telling Caleb what he's going to do and what I'm going to do. He doesn't argue with me, so he either agrees—or he's intimidated. I like to think it's both.

I explain that the lasers on the guns and receivers are not precise. It won't take a direct hit, just an approximate one. Caleb seems pleased, and I leave him to stand guard over our flag from the shelter.

I take off across the park, following a zig-zag pattern, making sure to move under cover whenever possible. I hope to intersect with Christina or Zeke by taking this path, but it turns out not to be that easy. So when I reach the outskirts of the park and haven't seen one of them yet, I decide to circle back, tracking along the perimeter before moving farther out, where it's more open.

I'm almost back to my point of origin when I see movement in the shadows ahead of me. A wicked grin spreads over my face as I recognize Zeke's silhouette and begin to stalk him. When I'm within range, I wait, still, until he turns his body just enough to expose the receiver on his chest and "Zing!"—I light him up.

"Aw, man!" he yells, throwing his gun to the ground before remembering that he's supposed to be careful with it. He looks around and hastily picks it up, brushing it off with his shirt.

I'm pleased but don't have the luxury of hanging around. If Christina is nearby, Zeke's yell gave away the general location of my position, and I've got to put some distance between him and myself.

I think through my next move. She might have opted to stay near the flag until another meet-up with Zeke. If she doesn't know I got him, I might be able to find the flag by finding her. On the other hand, if she heard me take Zeke out, she can't afford to play it safe anymore, and she'll be forced to go on the offensive. Or hope to catch me while defending. She's more likely to succeed if she tries to hunt me down, though that might leave her flag exposed. However, if she stays behind to guard it, she's almost certainly a sitting duck, unless she has perfect cover, which is not easy to find.

I consider all that I know about Christina. She's bold, and I don't think she'll want to wait around. She'll opt for action over defense. So my objective is not about finding her, unless I do so by accident, it's about figuring out where they hid the flag—and getting there first.

The first thing that comes to mind, is that Zeke isn't that original. He might have gone with an old winning strategy. I run toward the peer, keeping my eyes sharp and my gun at the ready. I see no sign of Christina. I'm almost there when I see the tree, out in the open, the tree that held Eric's losing flag. I wonder...

It would make sense for them to exploit my known weakness. I cringe as I run, hating the thought of having to climb two objects in one night.

I'm within fifteen yards of the tree when I simultaneously spot the flag high up on a branch to my left and, out of the corner of my peripheral vision, a flash of reflected light to my right. I immediately drop to my knee and lower my shoulder—it's harder to hit a moving target—rolling so that I come up already positioned with a direct line of sight on Christina. I fire into her chest before she can draw a bead on me.

"Dang it, Four!" she yells at me, laughing as she works her way down through the branches and drops to ground.

I laugh too, adrenaline still flowing through my body. My first impulses about both Zeke and Christina's strategies were wrong. I shake my head. Tris would have loved that. I chuckle, more softly, to myself. She also would have loved to see me in action, improvising and adapting to overcome my mistakes.

Christina saunters toward me, smirking, and says, "You know, the game's not officially over until you retrieve the flag. So unless you want to drag Caleb over here—," she says, making exaggerated gestures toward the tree.

"I do hate to lose," I say, gritting my teeth and handing her my gun. I walk to the tree and grab the bottom branch.

"Yah. Winning. Just one of those moments that _don't_ suck," she calls out loudly as I haul myself up into the air.


	12. Chapter 12

TOBIAS

I hunch over my bowl of oatmeal in the morning, guiding the spoon to my mouth by instinct, not sight.

"Tired?" Evelyn asks, without actually needing an answer. I hear her rustling through her bag. She fishes something out of it and returns to the kitchen, clattering around too loudly as she pulls items from the cupboards and drawers. Before long, she sets a mug in front of me and says, "Here, drink this. A little something I discovered on the outside."

I can feel heat emanating toward me and I squint at it. It's a steaming cup of dark brown liquid. I frown, reminded of the dark brown of Dauntless cake and hoping it's not another overly-sweet beverage. It's just too early for that. I raise an eyebrow at Evelyn and she nods encouragingly. I lift the mug to my lips and carefully take a sip. I have to press my lips together to keep from spitting it all over my oatmeal.

"It's—bitter!" I say, looking up at her, surprised.

"Yes," she says, and I can tell she's trying not to smile, "but it'll wake you up." She nods at the cup in my hand, "That's how I make mine but—," she fetches something from the kitchen and says, "you can use a little sugar, _if_ you need it," holding out a small container, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"I'm fine," I mumble into the mug, bringing it to my mouth, again. I wonder if I could justify skipping work to give Zeke a beating. I _really_ shouldn't have let him drag me out so late on a work night. But it had been so long since we—since I—had let loose like that, just for fun. I smile and hope he enjoys explaining his fat lip.

Then I remember that Johanna was due back from D.C. last night and expects to meet at the office mid-morning to brief me on her trip and plan out our schedule for the next few weeks. I sit up straight and stretch before hastily shoveling a few spoonfuls into my mouth. Suddenly, I'm anxious to get going.

By the time Johanna arrives I've completed all the busywork I couldn't concentrate on the day before. It's filed away and the desk is clear. I even had time to jot down a list, point by point, of things I want to discuss. So when she opens the door, her eyes move around the small orderly room, taking in the clean desk, the list, and me standing, not too close, next to the glass as I stare out the window and drum my fingers against my crossed arms.

"Tobias," she says warmly.

Johanna Reyes is the kind of woman who knows how to be direct and compelling, and effective, without having to be harsh. She wears her hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, not the way she used to wear it, hiding the scar on her face as though it was a sign of strife and disunity, a shameful thing. She is more confident, now, but still gentle, all at the same time. I enjoy working with her.

She settles in at the desk and I pull up a chair to the other side. It doesn't take her long to review the meetings she attended and the votes she cast on one or two pieces of legislation. Then I give her a quick rundown of all the files I sorted through while she was gone—and, most importantly, my meeting with George and Amar yesterday.

"Well," Johanna says thoughtfully, swiveling around to stare at the city, "you should definitely go back to the Fringe today. I think it would be a good idea to have a public meeting, a forum. But we want good attendance, so it can't be an impromptu sort of thing. You'll need to advertise."

"Advertise?" I say, pen poised over my notepad.

She turns back to me and says, "Post notices. Signs. Give a specific date and location. Say—one week from today at the intersection of their four main roads." She stares past me, deep in planning mode. "Give people a chance to talk about it and spread the word. Give them a chance to prepare for it, if they want to. Go talk to them. Let them know we really want to hear what they have to say."

"Don't we already do that?" I ask uncertainly, wondering if I've been wasting my time these past couple years.

"Yes, we do. We _have_," Johanna agrees, resting her pointer finger against her lips. "But we clearly need to do more and, if there's one thing I learned in Amity, it's that people respond well to a corporal meeting. Talking about problems in casual conversation is usually nothing more than the venting of complaints and feelings. It's mostly negative. Raising opinions and ideas in a formal gathering feels—productive. Like it matters and holds more weight. There is unity of purpose." She nods to herself.

She looks at me and scribbles on her own notepad. "We'll both go," she says decisively. "Show a united presence. We'll field questions and bring our different backgrounds to bear. Hopefully," she pauses, tapping the desk with her pen, "hopefully, it will help to diffuse some of the tension."

"I'll put together some signs this afternoon," I say. "And I'll get in touch with George and Amar, see if they'll meet me in the Fringe tomorrow morning with some members of their team. If they don't already have other assignments or patrols scheduled, they can help me post them and pass them out."

I stand and tuck my notebook under my arm. "If there's nothing else, would you like me to get to started?" I ask, thankful for a plan to execute.

"Go ahead, Tobias. Give me an update tomorrow. And when you get the chance, write down anything you think it's important for us to address next week. Best to think over it and be prepared," Johanna says, already shuffling through the papers she removed from a case at her feet.

I am already at the end of the hall when I remember what I forgot. There is a moment's hesitation and then I decide to turn around, jogging back to the door. Johanna looks up, surprised, when I throw the door open hurriedly.

My upper half hangs into the room, supported by one hand on the door frame and the other on the handle. The notebook is pinned between my thumb and the frame and sticks into the room at an odd angle. She stares at it, eyebrows raised, probably expecting me to drop it.

"Johanna, I forgot to mention—you know Evelyn came back, and she's staying with me for a few days—really, no more than a few weeks—until she finds a job and her own place." I decide it's best to just lay out my request. Johanna appreciates the straightforward approach, and I respect her too much to try anything else. "She'd like to begin training with the Transportation Department. Specifically, operating trains. Could you put in a good word with the supervisor? I think it would help."

I chew the inside of my cheek as I wait for her reply with mixed feelings. I am still not sure what obligation I have to Evelyn. She didn't ask for me to intervene. I volunteered my help. And I do want her to get this job. But is that because I want her to move forward with her life and be successful? Or is it because I just want her to move on?

My brow furrows under the weight of my internal confusion and Johanna's eyes rest thoughtfully on my face, as though my scars are as evident as hers.

She nods at me. In spite of her history with my family, she is a peacemaker at heart. And I think she wants to encourage that in me. So much of my life to this point has been spent in bondage to violence, thrown into one conflict after another. Rebuilding the city takes time, and we are committed to that. But healing people, takes longer. And we are committed to that, too. We are _all_ mending, one at a time.

"I'll call right after their lunch break and see what I can do. If they have a new group ready to go through the orientation program, she might be able to start within the week," she says and smiles.

"Thanks," I say, pulling my body back out into the hall. No more adequate words come to me, but that doesn't matter. With Johanna, it's enough. She's already gone back to her work, humming, a tune I am certain would mean something to another Amity. I just admire the soothing melody for what it is, getting softer and softer as it follows me to the exit.

The next week is a blur of activity. I am constantly running back and forth between the city and the Fringe. Amar offered to let me stay with him at the Bureau, but I have no desire to set foot in that place, again. We are working toward resolution, and I am outwardly promoting it. But, there are some lines I will not cross to get it.

So I take the train out every day, reveling in its movement and the energy it gives me. Each time, I stand at the back door of the last car and watch the city pass, just like I did the last time I left it with her. Amar always meets me with his black truck, and I hop into the passenger's seat for another long day of passing out fliers and replacing the ones that were torn down or defaced.

I try to be hopeful that people will come to this gathering. I try to be hopeful that words can turn the tide, here. But I am not from a place where words are powerful. I am not like Johanna or Christina. I look down at the notepad on my lap, the one I have carried with me everywhere we went this week, in case inspiration struck me. It is a very short list, and they are just words.


	13. Chapter 13

TRIS

I don't see Matthew again for a week. I know this because he brought me a calendar and a clock and sat them on the table by my new bed before he left. I am grateful for that, though I don't want to be. I remember being imprisoned, before, and the loss of time is as mentally damaging as some physical tortures.

I assume he has gone back to Chicago, to his official job. No sense raising any suspicions, especially when there's nothing he can do, here, yet. My recovery is left in the hands of my nurse, Beth, and physical therapist, Andrew.

Beth checks my vitals every morning. She tried to get me take pills the first day, but I refused, even when she assured me they were just for pain. She shakes her head around me a lot. Then she orders my breakfast tray and watches me while I eat it. I always tear into it with fierce determination. She sees it as compliance. Only I see it as more than that.

Then Andrew comes. He helps me walk around the room, which I am never allowed to leave. I ask him about that, but he just smiles and tells me to walk before I run. We start with simple exercises. I sit on the edge of the bed and he attaches weights to my wrists and ankles. I lift my arms and my legs, alternately, and hate the weakness that keeps them from doing what I know they can do.

I remember being out of breath during my first runs as a Dauntless-initiate. I remember untried muscles so sore and stiff I didn't think I could crawl out of bed in the morning. I remember how flimsy I felt the first time I hit the punching bag, jarring pain reverberating down the length of my arm, though it never budged an inch.

And I remember Tobias, with his hands on me, on my stomach. Making me straighter. Making me more powerful. Teaching me what I am capable of. So I lift to exhaustion, hating that I need Andrew's hands to support me, then sleep until my next meal.

They bring me a monitor and tell me it's called a television. Beth turns it on and hands me a device that will change the views on the screen. At first, I am appalled that they are watching these people, too, and toss the device back at her in disgust. But Beth explains these are not real people's lives. These are people_ pretending_, acting out a story, and there are many, many choices. I don't understand, and I don't try to.

"Why would I want to watch that?" I ask, frustrated, pulling my knees up to my chest.

"Because—it's entertaining," Beth says flatly, staring at me from beside the television in disbelief, as though I've just refused a great gift. Clearly, she's disappointed, but I just shrug and look away, so they remove the television from my room. I don't need the distraction, especially a stupid one.

I am left with silence, and that is fine. Every day we go through this same routine. Beth tries to talk to me when she makes her rounds, but I don't say much. Andrew says little and does a lot. I view him as my ally, though he doesn't know in what. He's more of an accomplice, really. I ask him questions about my recovery plan, and he gives short answers. And I watch. I watch everything. How and when Beth and Andrew enter the room, and how and when they leave. And I watch the calendar and the clock.


	14. Chapter 14

TOBIAS

Johanna and I arrive at the Fringe an hour early. It's an unusually cool morning and I wonder, as I move around the intersection arranging rows of chairs George and Amar have trucked in from the Bureau, if that will deter people from coming.

I stomp my feet to get the blood flowing through my legs, and my feet tingle with pin pricks. I cup my hands close to my mouth and exhale warm air over my numb fingers before grabbing a platform with George, moving it into position at the focal point of the streets.

I look around, nervous. Amar insisted on bringing a small contingent of his police force to the meeting, for security purposes. He said it was important to have their presence felt so that the people would understand this was a peaceful gathering. They are simply here, this day and every day, to ensure everyone's safety.

I agree with the _need_ for it but, as I watch the armed officers gathering around the intersection, laughing and chatting or finding shelter from the wind, it seems incongruous with our goal. And I am uneasy.

Finally, the stage is set and all we can do is wait. I sit down in one of the chairs and glance over the notepad in my lap. It is a pitifully short list.

-The Bureau

-Training

-Jobs

-Food

-HOPE?

I hear noises behind me and turn around in my seat. The police are moving to the edges of the intersection to make way for the people who have begun pouring into the streets. They come from doorways and alleys and around every corner. The stomping of their feet over the hard ground begins as a rhythmic staccato and grows to a muffled pounding.

They are surrounding me, and I quickly get up from my seat and stand to the side of the platform, wide-eyed. They fill all the chairs, then file into crowded rows behind, stretching out in a great congregation.

Johanna joins me and we are both momentarily speechless, staring at the sea of faces. I have thought about this morning all week, not knowing what to expect. I definitely didn't expect this. My eyes meet other eyes, and I am concerned by what I see there. Because it is familiar to me, and I know what it means. Stubborn defiance.

Amar directs his officers to form a loose ring around the intersection and nods to us. Johanna looks at me, takes a deep breath, and clears her throat before stepping forward with a broad and welcoming smile.

"My name is Johanna Reyes, Congressional representative for our district. And this," she pauses, gesturing in my direction, "is Tobias Johnson, my assistant."

I see some heads bobbing in the crowd. They know our faces or our names. Or both.

"I have not had the pleasure to meet all of you, yet. But I'd like to, and I'm very encouraged that so many of you came to talk with us this morning. Please, please feel at ease," she says earnestly, clasping her hands together in front of her. "We are interested in anything you have to share."

"What about jobs?!" One voice immediately yells from the back. "I can't get work. Can't feed my family. How're you going to change that!?"

"Well, there are many jobs to be done in the city—," she begins before being abruptly cut off by scattered boos.

"What if we don't want to go that far? We like staying, here, on our own. Not dependent on anybody," someone else shouts loudly.

"Of course, you don't _have_ to travel to the city," Johanna says calmly, raising her hands, palms outward. "But it might be good to consider the benefits of living in and contributing to a real community—."

"This_ is _a real community," returns another strong, forceful voice.

I chew the inside of my cheek and eye Johanna. She still looks poised and in control, but I see her swallow before speaking again.

"You could more easily travel to the old Amity compound," she suggests in a helpful tone, hands clasped, again. "You could be trained to assist in agriculture, gain employment _and_ food."

"Look around Ms. Reyes. There are too many of us to work there, just in this crowd. Where will the rest of us go? Who will hire us? Or judge us justly? Or treat us fairly—an inferior group of people?!" shouts a man with a hard face in the front row.

"You are _not_ inferior! We don't believe that. And I'm sure there are many people—here and elsewhere—who would be glad to hire you!" she says sincerely, hands outstretched toward the man, who is scowling.

More boos and grumbling rise from the gathering as they elbow one another and shake their heads. I shift anxiously from one foot to another, and back. I hope Johanna has something more to offer these people, because my list has already been exhausted, and our hopes for keeping this meeting civil are quickly fading.

"If you believe that," says the hard-faced man in the front, "you are fooling yourselves."

Johanna's smile remains, but it's stiff. Her eyes are worried. "Well," she says, and I hear an edge of desperation in her voice, "there is work to be done at the Bureau. Show them how competent and hard-working you are! Make firm in their minds the new impressions they were given—."

"They started this!" yells an angry woman at the far side of the crowd. "We'll _never_ go back to the Bureau, unless we go to finish it!" She raises a fist in the air amid a drowning chorus of cheers.

Then everything happens so fast. I see it coming but can do nothing to stop it.

The nearest officer puts a hand on her shoulder, to calm her down and regain order. She tries to shrug out of his grasp and a tall man next to her shouts at the officer, pushing him away. The officer falls and another runs to his aid, but now the crowd has turned. They see the officer running toward them and a stocky man in a worn coat throws a punch at him. The officer defends himself, landing a jab to the man's jaw, to great cries of outrage from the circle around him.

Officers converge on the people and chaos breaks out. Everyone screaming and pushing and shoving and falling over chairs. Those who make it out of the gathering, run. Those who stay begin to fight with a vengeance.

I am frozen, fists clenched, notepad forgotten on the platform at my feet. Everything that I know urges me to dive into the crowd. But I don't want to leave Johanna, who stands next to me with her hands pressed to her lips, stunned. The officer Amar planted near the platform for our protection looks equally stunned, and equally unsure where his loyalty lies—with us or with his fellow officers.

I watch in horror as a muscular young man wrenches an officer's weapon from his grip and rams the butt of the gun into his face. Blood spews from the officer's nose as two other officers rush to tackle the man, and I make a decision. I run to the paralyzed officer next to me on the stage and pull the handgun from his hip holster. I turn and fire the gun into the sky, away from the crowd. Twice.

The unmistakable bangs ring through the air and echo off the buildings. Everyone stops scrambling over one another and, one by one, they hesitantly stand, frightened, distrustful eyes never wavering from the gun in my hand. I quickly flip on the safety and toss it in the direction of the shocked officer. The gun slides across the platform and all eyes are on me, now.

I exhale heavily, reminding myself who I am. I am Tobias Johnson. I will not fail to act when something needs to be done—and I can do it. I am brave, though not extraordinary. And I am like them. I am angry and trying to be whole in a world that feels broken.

Only, I have help, and they don't. And I don't want to hurt them. Not unless I absolutely have to. Not if I can just get them to listen.

"You hate the Bureau, and I don't blame you. What they did was wrong," I say urgently, my voice strong. Johanna looks at me sideways but doesn't interrupt. So I take a deep breath and continue. "They were wrong to believe you were damaged and then treat you like it. They were wrong to use my city to fix a problem that doesn't exist, when there are _real_ problems, here."

I see Amar out of the corner of my eye, smoothing his hands over his uniform, shaken. He nods at me.

"But attacking the Bureau as it is now—or the people who try to help you—won't change anything. If you want change, choose it. Do something about it."

I walk across the platform and point to the hard-faced man who watches me with narrowed eyes. "If you want to be treated fairly, join the police force. Protect and serve your own people. And vote! Elect someone who believes in the things you believe in. Or represent them yourself!" I look up at the crowd and cross my arms over my chest. "If you want to be judged justly, study. Become a lawyer or a judge. Make right arguments and rulings."

"Those jobs are not just for people in other places, in other cities. They can be yours, too, if you want them. If you work hard." I cup a hand over the back of my neck, where my tattoo curls over my shirt collar, and implore them with my eyes to take my words to heart. "But you need to be trained, prepared, qualified."

I look around at the people, poor and dirty, and remember, they have no facilities to do that. And how can I ask mothers and fathers to leave their families behind every day, or to send their young children all the way into the city? They could do it for a time, maybe, but the inconvenience would be great and their frustration greater. They are hopeless, and I can see in their skeptical faces that my words are empty to them.

A thought comes to me and my face brightens, lit with excitement. "If you had a school, a place to be educated, here, where you live—that would a start, for all of you!"

I hear loud sighs and groans as people begin to turn away, shaking their heads as they slowly disperse back to whatever alley, door, corner or makeshift hut they came from.

"Wait!" I yell, frustrated. "Wait! What if we got you a school? What then!?"

But they ignore me and walk on. I want to drag them back and knock sense into them one at a time. I could do that. Be forceful in a way that my speech wasn't. But I look at Johanna, who has finally regained her usual composure and stepped off the platform to begin stacking the overturned chairs. My shoulders sag and I feel drained, defeated.

I walk to where Amar is standing back from the scattering crowd and we stand together in silence, watching the people shuffle past with downcast eyes. When the last one is gone, he claps me firmly on the shoulder and I look up. He is watching me, thoughtful. Amar doesn't say anything, but he nods, again. I get the sense that he was looking for something, and found it.

He smiles, releases my shoulder, and goes to help Johanna stack the chairs. I wonder fleetingly what he saw, and then I follow them into the wreckage.


	15. Chapter 15

TOBIAS

Most of the police officers have already headed back to the Bureau, and there are just a few of us left. Some are checking their equipment and uniforms after the scuffle. Some are walking the area to make sure we don't leave anything—especially weaponry or ammunition—behind. Though, if anyone did lose anything, I'm doubting they would admit to it at this point. It's probably long gone by now, anyway.

I am finished loading the truck with the last of the chairs, but Johanna is still chatting with George and Amar toward the front of the vehicle. I decide not to interrupt them and lean against the rear bumper, enjoying a few minutes to relax after the high tension of the morning.

I'm just thinking how easy it would be to fall asleep when I catch a glimpse of movement at the corner of a building across the intersection. I rub my eyes and squint into the sunlight, which is now bright in the sky. I stare at the corner, eyes fixed, and see it again.

A face. A child's face. Poking around the side of building. The little boy catches me watching him and immediately pulls back.

I straighten up and keep watching, intrigued. The boy sticks his head out, again, and sees that I'm still looking at him. He peeks around, cautious, then he waves at me. I'm taken aback, but I give a little wave in return. I make out a small smile, and then the boy begins waving furiously, beckoning me to him. Maybe he needs help?

For a moment, I consider what I should do, or if I should tell anyone. Most everyone is still occupied—even if it's just busily goofing off. And I'd really rather do something useful by myself, since I'm still feeling like a failure after everyone walked out of the forum while I was speaking. Like leaving was better than hearing anything I had to say. So I get up and quietly walk across the square, hoping no one notices me.

When I reach the corner, the boy is already at the end of the street, and I start to jog to catch up with him. He turns another corner and, when I get there, I see him disappear into an alley. I hesitate, but then follow him. _Maybe he's just shy or nervous_, I think. These people are not used to asking for help, let alone finding someone who's willing to give it to them.

I've just stepped into the shadow of the alley when I feel two large bodies press up behind me, each one grabbing me by an arm. _Damn it, Tobias_. _So stupid_. This is the kind of thing I would have yelled at Tris for doing. But I can't waste a second thinking about that.

I get a quick sense of my surroundings, then lunge backwards. The men don't expect me to do that—most people would try to run—so they aren't prepared. I break free from the one on my right, whose hold was looser, and shove him toward the brick wall that closes in on us. He spins around and rushes toward me.

I know I resolved not to hurt these people, if I could avoid it, but it looks like I can't. I _will_ defend myself.

I use the one still holding onto my left arm for leverage and kick, planting my right foot directly into the other man's stomach. He hits the back of his head against the wall, hard, and crumples to the ground, dazed. Then I bring my fist around in a right hook and catch the other man in the temple. He won't let go of my arm, so I continue my blitz, alternating between hooks to the head and deep uppercuts to his diaphragm and kidneys. Finally, he lets go, unable to catch his breath.

I stand, feet spread, both fists up and ready, but neither man makes another move toward me, so I'm satisfied I can leave them. I don't need to prove anything. I'm backing out of the alley when the one on my left holds up a hand and chokes out, "Wait. Rafi."

I pause but don't relax my stance. "What about Rafi?" I call.

"He wants to talk to you," the man spits, his hands on his knees as he continues heaving. "We're supposed to take you to him."

"Thought about asking?" I say, but the two men just look at each other and shrug. My heart rate slowly returns to normal, now that it seems the threat is averted. I deliberately lower my hands to my sides and straighten up.

"Alright. I'll go with you. But don't touch me again. Understand?" They both nod.

I walk toward them so they can see I'm going to keep my word, but I keep a safe distance. They lead me to the end of the alley, then enter a door on our left. When I reach it, I can see that they've gone up a long flight of stairs, and I carefully follow, still alert, making mental notes about my location and all possible exits and modes of escape.

At the top of the stairs, I can see a door hanging ajar and light creeping into the hall. When I push it open, I see Rafi sitting comfortably on a ragged-looking faded blue couch. The room is sparsely furnished and the walls are bare. Sort of like my apartment. The paint is dingy and chipped and the carpet on the floor looks like it used to be tan. This is not the same place Nita brought me to for our last meeting, but Rafi strikes me as the kind of man who moves around.

Mary sits quietly in a chair to his left, playing cards at a table. The two men who led me here sit at the table with Mary. One is tall and holds a cloth filled with ice to the back of his head. I don't know him. I recognize the other man as the muscular young guy who cold-cocked the officer with his own gun earlier. I see a trickle of blood running down his left check and note that his eye is red and already swollen shut.

_Tomorrow, it will be purple_, I think. I can't help smirking.

Rafi tilts his head to the side and folds his hands in front of him, eying me with interest. "They weren't instructed to hurt you, you know. Just supposed to bring you here," he says, picking at his fingernails. "I guess that was too much to ask, not being the kind of thing they're used to," he admits, eyebrows raised. "Looks like it worked out though, _for you."_

He smiles, but I don't say anything. Rafi wanted to talk to me. Let him talk. He nods and says, "Come in, _Four,_" gesturing toward an overstuffed brown chair to his left. The stitching is loose and stuffing protrudes from the cushion.

So he remembers me. I step into the room and stride confidently to the offered chair, taking a seat and enjoying the fact that I have a full view of my sparring partners.

"Do you prefer to be called Mr. Johnson?" he asks casually, continuing to pick at his fingers.

"Doesn't matter," I say curtly. "Whatever serves your purpose."

Rafi smiles at me again. "You're not much of a politician, yet_. _Are you?"

"I think of myself as a representative, not a politician. I don't know what you think of the latter, but I'm just trying to help people in Chicago, in the Fringe, in our district. Just like Johanna Reyes," I say, drumming my fingers on the armrests.

"Yes," Rafi says smoothly. "Well, I want to talk to you about that—your helping the people. I think that you _can_."

"They didn't think so," I say, frustrated. My knee bounces and I make myself stop. I am in control of myself, and I want Rafi to know it. "They weren't listening to anything I had to say. And they weren't going to, were they?"

"No, they weren't," he agrees straightforwardly. "They were there to continue stoking the fire. But _I_ was listening Mr. Johnson," Rafi says, looking at me pointedly, rubbing his left hand in circles on the couch. "I thought what you had to say was very interesting."

"You know that we spent a long time planning an attack on the Bureau. The attempt in which you were involved was, admittedly, ill-timed and poorly executed. Then the workers there were reset with the memory serum, _accidentally_," he says, watching me closely with his dark, steady eyes. I don't flinch, though I suspect he hopes I will.

He rubs his chin and continues, "Some of the people in the Fringe hoped that would be enough, to give them a new understanding of history. Then, maybe, they would see us as equals." He shakes his head. "Others of us, well, we knew how little would really change. And, frankly, we were a little—disappointed—with the outcome."

Mary hands him the deck of cards she was using, and he begins to methodically shuffle them while he talks. "We are equal human beings still fighting for jobs we can't get, _and_ we were robbed of the punishment we wanted to give. Still, we were willing to watch and wait while there was hope for a new way of life. But after two and a half years, many of us feel the time to be hopeful is over. And without hope, there is only despair."

I am surprised by how freely he speaks to me, and I just listen. I expect he likes it that way.

"Mr. Johnson, bitter people can do terrible things. In fact, another larger and far more carefully-planned attack has been scheduled. And I have had a hand in it," he says, matter of fact, staring directly at me before dealing the cards onto the couch.

"Why would you tell me this?" I ask warily, tapping my foot on the floor, in spite of myself.

"Because, I happen to think there is much wisdom in the plan you suggested this morning. A plan that might actually produce the change we have all wanted, and needed, for so long. Educate our people. Here. In the Fringe. It is a good plan," Rafi says, smiling. He and Mary play a game I don't know, and I watch the cards flying back and forth, unable to tell who is winning and who is losing.

"If you can promise me a school, I will go to the people and ask them to wait and see, again. I think, I believe, they would listen to me. But," he pauses, looking straight at me again, "soon. No more talk. No more public forums or meetings. Change they can see. They will wait for nothing less."

"What if I can't get you a school that fast?" I ask, tense, my hands clutching the armrests of the chair.

"Then the attack will probably go forward as planned," Rafi says coldly.

"I could go to the Bureau. I could warn them," I say, picking at the stuffing in the cushion. It's not a threat. Just a statement.

"You could," he concedes. "But I don't think that would make much of a difference." He picks up the cards and shuffles them a second time. "I know you remember how shocked the factions in the city were to discover how large the factionless had grown. I think you would be similarly surprised at how many people we now have living in the Fringe. They are all poor. And they are all committed to our cause."

Rafi looks at me, again, head cocked to the side. "You saw them this morning, and that was only a fraction. They are ready for this. The Bureau have more weapons, but they are outnumbered. They will lose," he says confidently. He deals the cards again, and a chill steals over me.

"They have the Death Serum," I say quietly, leaning forward. "If you bring this great assault, if you challenge them, they will be forced to use it. You know they are capable of that. You know they will act out of self-preservation, self-defense."

"We will not argue over your application of the term _self-defense_. But I agree with you. If we attack, warned or not, there will be extensive casualties, on both sides. And I want to avoid that, if you will help me," he says, expectant. "If we attack, we would enjoy our success for a short time, but we would still lose in the end. Neither of us, I think, like to lose, Mr. Johnson. I want change for the Fringe._ Real_ change."

"Johanna Reyes goes to Washington, D.C. regularly. I am sure she can lobby for a grant that would fund the school," I answer, bringing my folded hands to my lips.

"I want _you_ to go. Ms. Reyes is a woman of words, and I have nothing against her. But, you, Mr. Johnson—_Four_—you are a man of action," Rafi says, holding my eyes with his.

"I don't go to Washington." I say. Another statement.

"You will," he says calmly, smiling. He throws his cards onto the couch, delighted. I suppose he won.

"You will go, because I do not think they will hold off for anything less. I need to give them a sign, a token, that this is possible. Your effort on our behalf, Mr. Johnson, would go far."

"Why?" I ask, bewildered, standing up and crossing my arms over my chest.

"Because you have lost even more than we have. And we know it. So it would mean a lot to us, to me, to see you set aside your own feelings for the Bureau, to act to spare them—_for us. _Did you mean all the things you said this morning, Mr. Johnson? Do you want to help us? Will you go get us this school?" Rafi asks, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

I don't remember walking back to the meeting site. I am lost in thought, but my feet are not. When I enter the intersection I see a flurry of activity. Officers running around, George talking on a radio, Johanna sitting in the truck holding her head wearily in her hand, and Amar jogging toward me, upset.

"Where have you been?" he shouts at me from across the square. He stops in front of me and grabs me by the shoulders. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. Of course," I say, feeling slightly disoriented. "I'm fine. I was with Rafi."

"Rafi?!" Amar says, surprised, as I walk past him.

I don't stop until I reach the side of the truck and put my hand on Johanna's shoulder. "You need to schedule a trip to Washington next week. And I'm coming with you."


	16. Chapter 16

TOBIAS

I knock on the door and wait, hopeful. I don't feel like going home right now, but I don't have a lot of other places to choose from. I knock again and am ready to give up when I hear loud footsteps inside. I sigh gratefully.

Zeke swings the door open and grins widely. "Well, this is a surprise! Does your Mom know you're out so late?" he asks, chuckling as he steps back to let me in.

"Evelyn will be fine," I say as I walk past him into the apartment. Shauna is resting, legs extended, on a large couch in the center of the room. I nod my greeting to her as I take a seat on a smaller one against the far wall. "But I did call her Supe from the office and pass on a message," I concede.

Zeke laughs as he closes the door. "Uh-huh. Thought so." He heads to the little kitchen almost identical to mine and says loudly, "Can I get you anything?" I hear him rummaging through the fridge. From all the clinking and muttering, it sounds pretty full.

"A drink. The good stuff. Whatever you have," I shout back, slumping down so that my head and neck rest on the back of the couch and my feet stretch far into the room.

He returns with a dark brown bottle in his hand and offers it to me. Then he goes to where Shauna sits, gently lifts her legs, and eases himself down so that they lay across his lap. He rests his arms on them, holding one of her ankles with his left hand. They seem so comfortable, and happy. I look away and take a long swig.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch them giving each other a look, and I almost want to get up and leave. Almost. I didn't come here for this. I came to relax and unwind. I tilt my head back again and rest a hand over my face.

"So, what's up?" Shauna asks casually. I can't see her, but I'm sure she and Zeke are communicating about me through a complicated system of silent nods, gestures, and facial expressions. All of which they understand without interpretation or interference.

"Just wanted to hang out with a few of my friends. Is that so strange?" I say, feeling aggravated, setting the bottle on the floor and crossing my arms over my chest.

Shauna's eyes rest on the bottle and she looks back up at me, knowingly.

"What's going on, Four?" Zeke says gently, which makes me even more annoyed. He's not being forceful, but I know he won't let it go either, not until he's sure it's okay to leave me alone with my thoughts. That I'm not going to do something stupid.

Christina let him in on the memory serum incident-that-didn't-happen. I should have known she would. I'm sure she thought it was for my own good, but it's made some things more difficult than I think they need to be. Or maybe _I've_ just been more difficult than I need to be. I shrug to myself.

I've shown up now and then over the last couple years, after having a really hard day. They're familiar with this behavior, though I feel badly for that. They've never judged me or turned me away or told me to get over it. I don't have to pretend to be fine, when I'm not. I couldn't ask for better friends, and I know it. I am more free to be myself with them than with almost anyone else—anyone since Tris.

They don't understand that what's bothering me today isn't about her. They just want to help. I sigh and pick up the bottle, taking another long drink.

"I have to go to Washington, D.C. next week," I say in explanation, staring at the bottle in my hand. The glass is so dark I can't see through it, just the hint of what's inside it.

"Wow." Zeke says, eyes wide. "So, that means an airplane, right?"

"Yep," I say, watching the liquid move around inside the bottle as I swirl it in circles.

"Which means going to the Bureau," he says quietly, moving his cupped hand back and forth over Shauna's ankle.

"Yep," I say, again, fidgeting with the collar of my shirt. It feels tight on my neck, and I release one of the buttons. "I'm getting to do all kinds of things I never wanted to do. These last few weeks have been a blast."

Zeke watches me, thoughtful, eyebrows furrowed. I can tell he's weighing how he wants to reply, what tactic I will respond to best. I shake my head at him.

"Clearly you need to brush up on your mental toughness," he says, smirking. So we're going for humor. "I think you need another trip down the zip-line. In preparation." He holds his left hand up in the air and then moves it down in a quick woosh, grinning. Shauna rolls her eyes at him.

"Not gonna happen," I say, as he continues to mime the zip-line descent and waggle his eyebrows at me.

"I could make you go," he suggests, eyes dancing as he leans forward over Shauna's legs.

"No you couldn't," I laugh, grinning, in spite of myself, even as I lift the bottle back to my lips.

"Yah, you're probably right," Zeke agrees, rubbing the spot where I punched him in the mouth last week. "So, an airplane. Well—drink up, then!" he says and gives Shauna a long kiss before moving to her neck, which makes her giggle.

This is like every date I ever went on with Zeke. He gets to make out while I end up feeling awkward and alone, and trying not to stare. I raise my bottle in the air and then follow his advice for once.


	17. Chapter 17

TRIS

It's Saturday morning and, judging by the clock, Beth shouldn't arrive for another half hour. So I scoot to the end of the bed and hang my legs over the edge. I carefully shift my weight forward, dropping my feet to the floor. It's cold under my bare feet, and I slowly stand, testing my legs. They feel strong. Well, stronger.

I grip the bed rails firmly with both hands, steadying myself and making sure of my balance before stepping forward. I've been practicing.

I make my way around the edge of the room, staying near to the few fixtures in it, just in case. My hand grazes over the chair against the wall, then the counter with the sink in the corner. I run my hand over the far wall as I move toward the door. I hang onto the door handle for a few moments, to rest. It is firm beneath my hand, not budging. I tried it the first time I made this round. Then I lightly touch the locked cabinet hanging on the wall, then the small table next to my bed, then the length of the bed rail until I reach the end, lowering my body onto it for another short break.

I am faster and stronger than yesterday. And I didn't need to catch or support myself at all. I smile and decide to take another trip. This time, more sure of my footing, I try all the drawers and cabinets in the room. I always do. But the ones that open contain nothing of use to me. Cotton balls, tissues, spare bed-sheets. Nothing that could be easily used as a weapon. I frown.

I move around my bed to the door in the other corner, the bathroom. I'm supposed to press a button on my bed if I need assistance to go, but I've been taking myself for days, now. I flip on the light and look around. Nothing new. Nothing other than towels and other necessities. I sigh, frustrated. They're so careful. Too careful.

I go back to the bed and deliberately climb back up to my pillow, leaning against it and pulling the sheets up to my chest, for show. I close my eyes, but I'm awake, giving myself over to another sleepless dream.

Tobias is here. He lays down beside me and slides his arm around my waist, pulling me close to himself, forming my body to his. We are all inseparable, intertwining limbs. He leans down and softly kisses my collarbone, moving along the delicate curve of my neck until he reaches the line of my jaw. I am just thinking about his lips on mine when the familiar click of the security lock on the door startles me.

"Good morning, Tris!" Beth says, too-cheerful, arms laden with her glass screen, blood pressure cuff, and thermometer. "It's a lovely day out! Clear blue skies and—."

"I wouldn't know," I interrupt sourly, clutching my sheet to my chin.

"Oh. Well, yes—," Beth says flatly, temporarily at a loss for words. She hesitates and clears her throat loudly before bustling forward and raising my bed to its full upright position to check my vitals, again.

I begrudgingly submit to her pulling my left arm from the sheets and listen to the woosh of air as she pumps the cuff. She simply says, "Good!" and continues her perfunctory exam.

When she's finished, she taps her screen a few times and heads back to the door, where she presses the call button and orders my breakfast.

"Good news, Tris! We're adding a little more variety to your meal this morning! It's very exciting!" Beth looks at me, expecting me to share her sentiments, and shakes her head before leaving when I don't.

I actually _am _excited to try something new. I'm sure there was a reason for sticking to such a simple menu before, but it got old, and boring, very fast. I chew the inside of my cheek, waiting in anxious anticipation.

When the tray finally arrives, I can't help breaking into a small smile over the cup which holds something other than water, the golden peaches with my oatmeal, and a plate of scrambled eggs on the side. I go for the cup first, thirsty after the long night, and the smooth, sweet orange liquid feels wonderful sliding down my throat. I quickly devour the oatmeal and eggs, then settle in for another impatient wait, for Andrew's arrival.

When he enters the room I am already sitting at the end of the bed, swinging my legs back and forth, and drumming my fingers against my knees. He gives me a nod and then, when he clears the doorway, I see that he is followed closely by Matthew, who looks very happy to see me.

"You look well this morning, Tris! And energetic!" Matthew says approvingly, sitting down in the chair next to the sink. "I'm just here to observe your session with Andrew today. Get a feel for the progress you made while I was gone," he says, smiling at me while pulling his glass screen onto his lap.

I stare at him as he draws his finger across the screen in a succession of rapid movements. I stare at him the entire time Andrew fixes the weights to my wrists and ankles, but he says nothing. Only when Andrew asks me to begin the exercises do I redirect my attention to the task at hand.

We easily work through the seated part of the physical therapy and move to the standing position, which I advanced to yesterday. My breathing becomes more labored as the exercises become more strenuous for me, but I don't stop or ask for a rest. Andrew supports my elbow as I bend my knees to a squat. We do this repeatedly until my thighs burn. Then Andrew helps me to slowly walk across the floor, this time bending at the knee, alternately, into a position he calls a lunge.

When we are finished, Andrew helps me back up onto the bed, and I breathe deeply and quietly as Matthew continues to work on his glass screen. Finally, he looks up, obviously pleased with what he's seen. I'm gratified, but also worried.

"Well, Tris, it's clear you've been working hard in the last week, though I wouldn't expect anything less from you," he says, patting me on the shoulder. "I'll be back to check on you again tomorrow." He tucks his screen under one arm and turns to leave, twisting the string at his neck with one hand as he goes.

So, Matthew will be back tomorrow, and he's impressed with my progress. My eyes focus on the locked door, the door that turns my recovery room into a prison cell. Tomorrow, I will ask Matthew to take me through it.


	18. Chapter 18

TRIS

It's Sunday and I am up early, again. I make my rounds around the room and then sit on my bed, fidgeting. I watch the clock move from one minute to the next with exasperating slowness, then stare at my legs when I can't take it anymore.

They are ghostly white, which seems appropriate. Paler even than I used to be, and that's saying something. They are skinny, too. Not lean like they were when I crashed down the stairs of the Hub to join the Dauntless-initiates in a mad dash for the train. Not muscular like they were by the time we stormed the Erudite headquarters. Not like they need to be for what I'm planning. I sigh. But they'll have to be good enough, good enough to carry me when I need them to.

Beth enters and I basically ignore her attempts at conversation this morning. I have nothing to say, and the less compelled she feels to draw me out, the sooner she'll order my food. I bite my lip and glare at the empty wall in front of me until she turns to leave, though I don't miss the perturbed frown she gives me.

I spoon the food into my mouth, almost too quickly to really enjoy the oatmeal topped with blueberries. Then I make myself slow down for the sweet orange liquid and the toast spread with jam. They're too tempting to neglect with haste.

When I'm finished, I push the tray away, but get agitated with it sitting on my legs. Like it's pinning me down. So I crawl to the end of the bed and carefully walk the tray to the counter. I sit on the bed and wait some more, shoving my restless hands under my thighs.

Before long, I hear the sound of the locking mechanism release, and Matthew walks into the room, alone. I am surprised, but not displeased, sure that I can persuade him. I decide to jump right in, not even waiting for him to pull out the chair.

"Matthew, I want to go outside the room today. I think I can do it—," I pause and deliberately add, "_if_ you will help me." I try not to look anxious, but it's hard to hide the energy that seems radiate from me as I wait for his response.

He spies the tray mysteriously sitting on the counter, and his eyes narrow. But he turns to me with a straight face and says, "I was going to suggest something along those lines. It seemed like you might benefit from a little extra room to stretch those legs. So how about a walk?" he asks, his head tilted with a crooked a smile as he holds out an arm for me.

I nod and eagerly reach out for him, careful not to seem too independent. I know I can't run from him. I wouldn't get far. But I can use this opportunity to see what's outside the room. And to get information that will be essential, later.

We slowly walk out of the room and I lean against him for support. Hallways extend to our left and right, peppered with unmarked doors on both sides. Each one has a special security pad by the door frame. It doesn't look like it requires a code or key or anything I could find a way to get.

My brow furrows in frustration, but I wipe my face smooth when I notice Matthew watching me. At the end of the hall to our right, stands a security guard. He's armed. Matthew guides me in the other direction. I want to peak over my shoulder and get a closer look at the man, but I know I can't.

Matthew's stride is steady and even, like I would expect. When we reach the end of the hall, we turn right, down another hall that's much the same, except I see a few nurses huddling together in a small alcove and another guard nearby.

"I never wanted you to feel like a prisoner, you know," Matthew says, interrupting my meticulous observations. "I know you want to go home—and you will. But I _have_ tried to make sure you would be comfortable in the meantime."

He continues at his methodical pace, and I continue to put deliberate pressure on the crook of his elbow. "I was disappointed to hear you refused the television," he says, frowning.

"I was disappointed you thought I'd enjoy it," I say shortly. I want him to think I need his help, but I don't need him to think I like it here. "I _do_ want to go home. I want to see Tobias!" I say, with more passion than I'd intended.

"You will," he repeats. I'm not sure if he's reassuring me, or himself.

We approach the second guard and pass the first large piece of glass I've seen here. It's a window to some kind of laboratory. There are rows of tables scattered with men and women in white lab coats looking attentively through microscopes or preparing samples. Others sit at computers, fingers flying over the boards as they key in data.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass as we walk by. It's the first time I've seen my own face in two and a half years, and I am shocked. My hair is much longer, falling past my shoulder-blades. It is thin and unhealthy looking. My cheeks are less full than they were, my bones more angular, and there are shadows under my eyes. I wonder sadly what I looked like a week and a half ago, before I'd had oatmeal and eggs and orange drinks.

So much change. So much time. So much that I have missed. "Tell me about Tobias!" I demand, a sob catching in my throat. I'm not asking anymore. I'm telling. I will press Matthew until he gives me _something_. He owes me that.

He must know from the sound of my voice that he can't continue to deflect my questions, and I see his eyes squint as he processes his options. I watch him pull on his string with his free hand and realize, he must think it will somehow be a distraction to me, to my focus. An obstacle to my recovery—the one thing he cares most about, right now.

"_Please _tell me Matthew. I just want to know how he is. Don't you see the not-knowing is worse for me!? I can't stop thinking about him and wondering where he is. If you would only tell me, I could finally relax and concentrate. Devote myself completely to improving as much as you want me to," I plead, hoping I've appealed to his pragmatic side.

I also don't think it hurts me to be a little emotional, either. Showing how distraught I am over this gaping hole in my knowledge of what's happened to me—to us. After all, Matthew knew us, then. And I don't believe him _completely_ devoid of sympathy. I rub my eyes with my free hand and look down at my feet. I stop walking and look up at him expectantly, eyes conveying, for once, all the sorrow and loss that I feel.

He sighs, and we turn around, heading back down the hall. "Tobias is fine. He still lives in Chicago. I see him around the city occasionally."

"What else?" I ask hungrily, clutching his arm tightly.

"He works for Johanna Reyes. She's now our district representative to Congress. He's her assistant," Matthew says quietly as we turn the corner back onto my hallway.

I try to get my bearings so I can count the doors to my room, but I have trouble keeping track, I'm so engrossed in anything related to Tobias. I keep looking at Matthew's face to encourage him, and I know I'm missing crucial details. It's hard to care.

"He scattered your ashes a little over a week and a half ago," he says, not unkindly. "I heard it from Cara. They went to the Hancock building and took turns on the zip-line. It was before you woke up."

We arrive at my room and I can't move any more. I _am_ actually hanging on Matthew, now.

My _ashes_? And Tobias went down the zip-line! The need to be with him surges within me and is almost overwhelming, like the waves that threatened to pull me under in my fear landscape. I am afraid I will never see him again. I am afraid he will never know I was here, needing him, wanting him. Alive.

I watch, stunned, as Matthew plants his thumb into the middle of the security pad by the door. The pad glows green beneath his thumb, and the door unlocks to admit us. He leads me into the room and sits me on the bed, before telling me that he will call Beth to bring me something to drink. I stare at my hands in my lap until I hear the door click, again. Then I jump up, hurriedly shuffling to it, desperate.

I am about to start banging on the door when I hear voices on the other side. I will my pounding heart to slow so that it is not the only thing I hear in my ears, and I press my face to the metal. It's Beth and Matthew. Talking. About me.

"Get her some juice, and she'll be fine. She's doing well physically, just as I'd hoped. Stronger, in fact. Stronger, I think, than she lets on." Matthew stops, and I wait, holding my breath.

"Continue her daily sessions with Andrew. It's good for her, and her fitness will only ensure better results. But, I don't want to wait much longer," he says. "Schedule the experiment for Saturday."

I slide to the cold floor and feel numb. I have to get out of here. I have to. But I don't know how. I think of the locked metal door, the unmarked hallway, and the armed guards. I think of the security pad that requires thumbprint identification. I think, it seems impossible.


	19. Chapter 19

TOBIAS

Johanna starts making calls first thing Monday morning. She spends well over an hour on the telephone while I just pace around the office, feeling the walls close in on me with every passing minute. She is hesitant to send me out into the city, unsure of what our plans for the next hour, or day, or week will be. I struggle to maintain control of myself and finally get her permission to run out to the nearest cafeteria for some drinks and light snacks.

I burst from the office like a man escaping from captivity and jog down the street, oblivious to what this will do to my professional appearance. I pull up when I reach the double doors and yank open the one on the right, for people entering the building.

It's not a typical hour for meals or breaks, so I hope there won't be a crowd. I briefly glance around the room and am thankful it's mostly empty. I quickly walk to short line formed at the first island, tucking my shirt back into my pants as I go.

It's not until I finish rearranging my shirt and glance up that I notice Christina two people ahead of me. She sees me and waves, picking up her tray and stepping backwards so the people behind her can skip ahead. I grab a tray of my own and begin moving down the line, not really seeing the various warm and cold food choices set out in pans and platters.

"Hey, Four!" she says, grinning when I catch up to her.

"What are you doing here?" I ask casually, careful not to sound annoyed. It's not that I mind seeing Christina, I just feel too anxious to talk. And she's a talker. I snatch up a shiny, red apple that catches my attention and deposit it in my to-go container.

"Same as you, I expect," she says cheerfully, picking up a few pieces of bacon with a pair of tongs. "Fetching a late breakfast for my boss who was running late and forgot to eat. Wish I got to come to work late," Christina mutters to me, picking up two slices of toast.

"On the plus side," she brightens, "I get to eat again. And—a pastry for me!" she says triumphantly, nestling it next to the bacon and toast.

"We're eating again, but mostly for the distraction," I say quietly, musing over the next island we've moved to.

"Uh-huh," Christina says, eying my practically empty tray and overly-serious face. "So what're you gonna get?"

"I don't know," I say simply, eyes wandering aimlessly over the selections until I finally reach for the spoon sticking out of a bowl to my right and scoop a large amount of what appears to be a dried fruit and granola mix into my container. I've never had it before, and I'm not even sure if Johanna likes it.

"Doesn't seem to be helping much then, does it? In the distraction department," she teases with a smirk, happily taking a couple cookies.

"Do you even eat real food?" I ask distractedly, moving down the line, again.

"Sugar just helps bring out the best in my naturally-outgoing and sparkling personality," Christina says with a smile. "You should try it. Here." And she sets a big piece of what looks very like Dauntless-cake onto my tray.

"I might actually eat that," I admit hungrily, sneaking a taste of the icing with one of my fingers.

"That's the spirit," she says. "Now, we're almost to the end of the line. How long do I have to engage in useless banter with you before you tell me about your trip?" she looks at me pointedly, putting her hands on her hips.

"Since when did you and Zeke start talking so much?" I snap testily, swiping another finger-full of icing.

"Since you and I became friends and I deemed it necessary," she says with unapologetic honesty, placing her tray in front of the register while digging around in her pockets.

I sigh. Classic Christina.

"I'm sorry," I say, frowning, and I mean it. I stick my hands in my pockets and stare at my toes. "It's just that I'm—."

"Hey, I know," she interrupts kindly. I appreciate that she doesn't make me say I'm afraid. She just smiles at me, her eyes so sincere and understanding I feel like I'm swimming in Candor truth serum.

"I'm going to Washington. On a plane. Sometime this week. I don't know when, yet," I say, letting the words fall out in a rush. "I'll be fine," I insist, straightening my shirt, again, for something to do while I wait my turn at the register.

"Really?" she asks, stepping aside, to-go container in hand.

"Yes, really. It's not like no one's ever done it before. Geez," I say with a crooked smile as I hand the cashier exact change.

"Alright, well, if I don't see you before you go—have a _blast_," Christina says, flashing a wicked grin as she turns and heads toward the exit.

"Thanks!" I yell back sarcastically, tossing the tiny printed receipt in the trash.

I take my time returning to the office, enjoying the cool morning air and thinking of my good friends, the turncoats. I'm still anxious, but somehow lighter, now, too. I shake my head and take the flight of stairs up to my floor two at a time. When I get back, breathing mildly escalated by the climb, I don't even have time to kick myself for forgetting the drinks when Johanna quickly looks up and waves me in urgently.

She now has papers scattered all over the desk and is furiously scrawling in her notepad. Without lifting her eyes from her work she announces, "We've been given an open slot in a hearing scheduled for Thursday morning. Given the extremely short notice, we're very lucky. We fly out Wednesday."

I set the food on the edge of her desk. I don't feel so lucky. In fact, I feel suddenly heavy, again. Definitely not hungry any more. Not even for almost-Dauntless chocolate cake.


	20. Chapter 20

TRIS

It's Tuesday morning and I stare at the calendar, almost hating it, now. The days continue their progression with complete disregard for me.

I slam it face down on my bedside table and chew the inside of my cheek. It's raw, and I taste blood. It's bitter and tangy on my tongue, and I can't wait for my breakfast to wash it away, so I walk to the sink and hold my open mouth under the running water faucet.

I climb back into the bed and huddle under the sheets, holding my head in my hands. There is nowhere else to hide and, right now, my mind feels as weak as my body. I _want_ to be strong, but I have endured the agonizing wait for death so many times already. I have _gone_ to my death before. I have put myself in perilous situations where I might have died in an instant. I turned myself over to Jeanine Matthews when I wanted to die, for the wrong reason, out of guilt. And I took Caleb's place when I didn't want to die, for the right reason, out of love. Now there is no reason at all, and it is hard, so hard, not to feel hopeless.

I force myself to think things through, again. I have no weapons. I am never allowed anything other than a spoon to eat with and, while I _could _use that if pressed to it, my stomach turns at the thought. I frown into my hands.

Even if I get out of the room, I don't know the maze of hallways beyond my weekend walk, let alone how to get past the guards. But, surely, they would not harm me. Matthew wouldn't want me harmed. He can't risk another setback or another injury. He needs me healthy and whole. _That _is something I can use to my advantage. Still, I need help navigating through the unfamiliar building. I know I can't overtake Andrew. But I think I am just strong enough to force Beth's compliance.

I grit my teeth, look at the clock, and walk across the room with new determination, a plan forming in my mind. It's not the best plan, but I can't afford not to try. There is nothing better. Every second takes me closer to the Death Serum running rampant through my veins, stronger than anything else my mind has defied, and more potent than a few minutes of surface exposure. It had probably barely begun to permeate my bloodstream, then.

No, I will not willingly go to die. Not this time.

Flat against the wall behind the door, I wait, breathing shallow, face set with my resolve. I hear the click of the door unlock and poise myself for action. There will not be a second chance to get this right.

As Beth walks through the door she automatically turns toward the bed. Before she has the chance to register I'm not there or call for help, I lunge forward and throw my left arm around her neck while catching the door with my right. Her glass screen clatters to the floor, the burden of my weight throwing her slightly off balance. I shift and prop the door open with my foot. I'm not strong enough to support her and pull her down the hall. Instead, I hang on her and squeeze.

We slowly move into the hallway, engaged in a strange balancing act. Me leaning on her while she presses against me, trying not to stumble. It takes all of my concentration not to fall. Thankfully, Beth seems to have no training in self-defense and is too bewildered to fight back. She does have a voice, though, and she is not too frozen to use it.

"Terry!" she chokes out in a strangled garble. "Terry!"

The guard at the end of the hall puts his hand to his hip, then hesitates when he sees me. He looks momentarily stunned and lifts his hand away from his holster, unsure. But he doesn't stay where he is. Terry begins to take slow steps toward us, both hands raised in the air.

"No. Stay where you are!" I shout, moving backward, away from the advancing guard. I try to keep my eyes on him and also look behind me as we approach the corner.

I slide us along the wall so that I can have a better view of every angle. When we reach the corner and maneuver around it, plastered against the wall, the other guard starts toward us and then stops, startled.

I don't know what I'll do when I get there, but I keep moving. Keep applying pressure to Beth's windpipe, hoping we'll find an exit before she passes out.

"Terry! John!" she calls out, desperate, her head oscillating back and forth between the two men.

I continue to move along the wall, the heightened stress and exertion beginning to wear on me. I stop to catch my breath and almost sink through the floor when Andrew emerges from a door to my immediate left, a door I didn't even see.

He's shocked, at first, but quickly takes in the situation and grabs me by the shoulders. I hang on to Beth, unwillingly to give up too easily, but the guard called Terry runs at me and pries my arm free. Beth is released and cowers against the far wall, clutching her throat and gasping. Her face is alarmed and disbelieving. But this isn't personal. I just can't let them kill me.

Andrew wraps his arms around my torso, pinning mine to my sides, and carries me down the hall back to my room. The guard named John talks in hurried, low tones into a device like a hand-held radio, which I can't hear, because I'm kicking and screaming with all the energy I have left. Beth follows quietly and activates the thumbprint identification lock so that Andrew can haul me into the room.

I struggle and resist as much as I can, arcing my back and straining against his grip as he tosses me onto the bed a little too roughly. He holds me there, bringing all his added weight to bear until John and Terry enter the room to bind my wrists and ankles to the bed rails, again. When it is finished, they all stand back and stare at me, silent. Everyone is breathing heavily and doesn't know what to say. Tears stream down my cheeks as they leave the room one by one.

Beth stands near my bed, watching me warily with red eyes, and bends down to pick up her glass screen, still lying where she dropped it. Then she walks to my bedside table and sets the calendar back in its upright position before leaving the room, the door locking into place behind her.


	21. Chapter 21

TOBIAS

We spend all day working on our proposal for the school in the Fringe. Johanna wants to have everything done before tomorrow, so we can spend the morning wrapping up any last minute details, not reworking the bulk of it. She pours over census reports and sociological studies on the relationship between jobs, education, and violence, or lack of it. A lot of the data we have access to is old and, probably, incredibly outdated, but we can't help that. And I put my skill with the computer to good use, creating a visual presentation to go along with the proposal.

By the time we turn off the lights and lock the door to the office, we are both exhausted. I consider canceling on Zeke, who's supposed to work out with me tonight, since I'll be gone for a few days. But I don't think about it _too_ seriously. I know I'll feel better once I get there.

So I step into one of the building's many bathrooms and try to quickly unbutton my shirt. But, as always, I end up having to slow down and force myself to be deliberate. I'm not sure when I'll ever get used to that. My fingers, so nimble with knives and guns, and even Tris, can't seem to maneuver button holes. I pull on a fitted gray tee that was stuffed in my bag and change into a pair of loose sweats.

I jog to the Dauntless compound for my warm-up and think about how thankful I am that the Dauntless leaders thought to have a second entrance. I've had enough of heights recently and, if I had to choose between jumping off the roof of that building and getting a little exercise, I'd head home right now. I don't even want to think about tomorrow. Just what my body can do, here, tonight.

I let myself in and see that Zeke has already turned on a few lights, so I don't have to find my way in total darkness, though I could. I pass the fear simulation room but don't let my eyes linger. I expect the case that held my needles is still lying where I left it. I've never been back inside to check.

I make the familiar descent down to the central area, my body hugging the wall naturally and my mind automatically relaxing with the soothing sound of the rushing water in the chasm. I'm always surprised by how much I miss it.

The muted impact of fists rhythmically hitting the punching bag echoes down the hallway when I near the training room. Zeke doesn't have a lot of finesse, but he gets the job done, and I eagerly pick up my pace, enjoying the coolness and the raw strength I feel, here.

"Hey, how'd you ever make it through Dauntless initiation?" I taunt as I walk into the room and easily take up a position behind the bag, holding it steady for him.

"Oh, shut up," he huffs between punches. He whips around and plants a strong side kick into the bag, knocking me backwards.

"Good one," I laugh, rubbing my hands together.

"Yah, you want a turn? I've been going at it for awhile already. And, of the two of us, we know who really needs the practice," Zeke says, backing up from the bag.

I grin and move into position. Dust motes rise in the dim light around us, hanging in the stale air. Who knows when this room was cleaned last—or if it ever was. Who cares. I don't.

My body feels settled and powerful. I tear into the bag with a flurry of punches, beginning with a jab-cross-hook-uppercut combination. After about twenty repetitions, I switch sides. I'm not sure why I felt so tired earlier. I hardly feel winded, now. Every muscle feels perfectly primed. I continue to mix it up until Zeke interrupts me.

"Alright, alright. Now that you've got that out of your system, how about we get to the part we've both been waiting for—a little one-on-one?" He raises his chin and beckons to me with his hands.

My lip curls and I walk confidently to the middle of the floor, hands up. Zeke doesn't hesitate and comes in fast with a set of jabs, but I block him and roll to my right, elbowing him in the back. I dig an uppercut into his side, and he shuffles a few feet away.

"Dude, fight fair," he chokes, rubbing his side. He's a little slower returning to ready position, now.

"How is that not fair?" I ask with a smile, advancing again into the circle of light surrounded by darkness and shadows.

He thinks I'm going to lead with a punch and ducks. I anticipate his counter movement and lunge forward, grabbing him in a headlock. Zeke tries everything he can think of to force me to release him, alternately clawing at my arms and elbowing me in the midsection. I steel myself against it, grinning.

This is nothing. As if I'm absorbing all his energy and growing stronger as he expends it. I drag him down to the hard mat and flex my arms around him, tightening my hold. He is stuck. And he knows it.

"It's not fair," he gasps, signaling his concession with the loud slap of his hand on the floor, "because you never let me win!"

We both stand and grin at each other, catching our breath.

"Now why—would I do that?" I ask, laughing. "You want to go again? Or have you had enough?" I say, wiping beads of sweat from my face with my shirt.

"Hell, yes," Zeke says in all seriousness, cracking his neck, then his knuckles. "Someone's got to bring you down, Four."

"You're welcome to try," I challenge, before heading back to the center of the floor.

When I reach my apartment, my shirt is a damp, dark gray and every exhale seems to further rid my body of the tension and anxiety that's plagued me. _It was a good day_, I think. And feeling the way I do at this moment, I'm willing to hope that tomorrow will be a good day, too.

I push through the door and am greeted by the smell of something warm and spicy. Evelyn stands in the kitchen, preparing two plates. I head back to my room and take a quick shower, just long enough to wash the salt from my skin and throw on some dry clothes that are probably clean. When I re-enter the living area, she's putting the plates and forks on the table.

"Um, thanks for waiting for me," I say, scratching the back of my neck as I take a seat.

"Of course," Evelyn says, looking at me with a small smile. She says a lot with those little smiles that she never says with her words. But it doesn't bother me, because I know this language. "You had a good day?" she asks, settling into her chair.

"Not bad," I concede, suddenly overwhelmed by the meaty aroma in front of me. I am famished. "You?" I ask, between large forkfuls.

"It was good. I got to drive one of the passenger trains for the first time, today. I liked it," she says, her eyes shining. She more than liked it, and I decide I'm glad for her.

"Another week or so of training, and my supervisor says I can test for my operating license," Evelyn says contentedly. I nod, and we eat in silence for awhile, both of us absorbed by our meals and our days.

I am scraping the last bits from my plate when Evelyn ventures to ask, "Are you packed?"

I shake my head. "Not much to pack, really."

"Are you ready?" she asks pointedly, though she never lifts her eyes from her plate.

"Everyone keeps asking me that," I mutter, getting up to take my plate to the sink. I rinse it off and set it on the counter.

I come back to the table and she looks up at me, eyes open and accepting. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be," I say simply. "Hopefully, I'm tired enough to sleep, tonight."

She nods and pats me on the shoulder on her way to the kitchen.


	22. Chapter 22

TOBIAS

I'll be meeting Johanna at the old Amity headquarters at noon, though the plane doesn't leave until 2 o'clock. Until then I'm finishing up some things in the office and tweaking the presentation I designed. I pass the time changing the background colors from gray, to blue, to red, to black, to gray, again. Nothing looks right, even though I know it's an unimportant detail. If the Committee for Peaceful Domestic Relations isn't receptive of our proposal, it won't have anything to do with colors or fonts.

I fiddle with the keys and start adding random words and phrases to the slides, like "Faction Before Blood," "Be Brave," "pansycake," "initiate," and "stiff." Words that would probably mean nothing to the senators in Washington, D.C., who, other than a report here or there, were essentially sheltered from the way we lived in our city experiment for generations. And also essentially sheltered from the far-reaching effects of those experiments on all the people living around us, as well.

I sigh, frustrated, bored, anxious. What can possibly compel them to have any empathy for our situation? For the real needs that exist, here? _It won't be a colorful slide show_, I think, and close the program without saving the changes. It won't be anything I can say or do.

I rub my hand over the back of my neck and wish, for the first time since I got them, that my tattoos—the black markings that represent my metamorphosis, my change from fearful Abnegation boy to feared Dauntless man—aren't there. I will be a distraction.

_What is Rafi thinking? What is Johanna thinking? _I wonder to myself.

The clock nears the hour when I'm scheduled to catch the train, and I finally allow myself to pack up my things. It's a few minutes early, but I would rather be on my way and moving in a productive direction, even if that course eventually takes me to the airport.

I gather my notepad and the portable computer Johanna found for me to use, and open my bag to tuck them inside. When I unzip the top flap and fold it over so that I can wedge them into a secure spot, I notice something blue protruding from beneath the few clothes and other items I packed.

It's Evelyn's sculpture. The one she gave me. The one she brought back to me.

I lift it out from the place where the she hid it and stare at it, reflecting a bluish prism under the light. I swallow, touched. She must have thought I would need it. I pull the shirt I'm planning to wear to the hearing from the bag and wrap the sculpture inside, protecting it. Then I replace it and make sure it's secure before closing the bag and giving the room one last cursory sweep before heading to the train. I don't want to be late.

I enjoy the freedom of the train ride, with the wind rushing through the open doors and swirling around me. I try to imagine how the plane will feel, but can't. Tris simply called it _amazing_. But she and I had very different opinions about that word.

The train is fast and open and grounded, and I know I can get off whenever I want to, even if I have to jump to do it. _That's_ amazing. I smile into the wind and wonder if Evelyn is driving this train under the watchful eyes of one of the transportation supervisors.

The ride feels shorter than usual, and I am disappointed when it comes to an end. I am also disappointed, as I am every time, that it slows to a stop, now. No need for dangerous exhibitions, anymore. We are a reformed city. On the outside, anyway.

Amar waits for me in his black truck where the fence used to be. I climb quietly into the passenger seat and we begin the short drive to Amity, where we will pick up Johanna before traveling on to the Bureau. I shudder. Did I really ever think this was so far away? That our little realm of existence was so large? My world is about to get bigger—much bigger—and I miss it and everything about it already.

We meet Johanna as planned and get on our way. I gaze out the window in silence, mesmerized by the blur of the fields and the grasses and the trees and everything that isn't the hard, gray edges of the cityscape. The ground is tilled and a rich brown color. I can't help smiling, the contrast is so great. So much change over so short a distance. If only life were more often like that.

We arrive at the Bureau and Amar puts the truck in park, not bothering to turn it off while he clears our entrance with the guard posted there. I avert my eyes and stare at my shoes. I have to be here, I _choose _to be here, but I don't want to see any more of it than necessary. It is just a means to an end.

Amar drops us off at the front door and I follow Johanna into the building. She's done this many times by now, and I watch her feet, even and sure in their stride, all the way to the security check point.

My bag passes through the screening mechanism and I wonder if they can see the sculpture wrapped in my shirt, and what the image looks like. I step into the box I'm required to pass through and close my eyes until a guard taps me on the arm to indicate I'm done. I don't even look around, I just grab my bag off the end of the conveyor belt that flows out of the screening machine and followed Johanna with unfocused eyes through the Bureau.

I walk over square, after square, after square of tile, some dingy yellow and some glossy white, before we come to a stop in a small waiting area with a numbered sign next to it. Johanna says it's called the gate number. I shrug. We are B13. Whatever that means.

There is a door, there, and I understand we will walk through it to get to the plane. Beside the door is a wall of glass, a floor to ceiling window allowing me to look out onto the great stretch of concrete streets that weave around the airport grounds. Johanna tells me they will take us to the runway. I don't want to go there.

We both look through the window, the thin layer of glass separating us from what's outside. The small plane sits stationary, parked, much like a truck, I suppose, but with wings and stairs that take you up into its belly. I exhale loudly. At first glance I was glad it wasn't one of the large ones I've seen, but now, I think the miniature version might be worse.

"We'll be perfectly safe, Tobias," Johanna says reassuringly, from some place far away and also right next to me.

"I know," I say quietly, willing myself to believe it. "I'm just wondering—is this really worth it? My going?" I shift from one foot to the other, disconcerted by how out-of-control I feel.

"Rafi insisted that you go. Of course it's worth it," she replies in her measured voice as we watch Bureau workers appear from somewhere and walk around the plane, checking it over. I wonder why they do it. I don't examine a vehicle every time I drive it. Neither does Amar or Zeke. I chew the inside of my cheek as I study them and the flaps they open and close.

"But why? Those men aren't going to listen to me," I say. "Rafi's pinning his hopes on an assistant-to-a-politician. And the fate—the lives—of a lot of people is riding on this." I cross my arms over my chest, trying to hold myself together.

"You're more than that Tobias. And Rafi knows it. He sees what I see. What Evelyn sees. What Amar sees. What Tris—saw. That you are a _leader_. You are brave and you stand up for people and you make mistakes, but you keep trying. You don't give up," Johanna says, simple as that. As though she's ticking through a list of well-known and undisputed facts.

She looks at me. "I don't need a politician to work with me. I work with plenty of those. I need you and all that _you_ bring to this job. So stop second-guessing yourself."

Johanna returns her eyes to the window and we watch a uniformed man, who I assume to be the pilot, converse with the crew on the ground.

"Even if all that's true—," she narrows her eyes at me and I rephrase, "Accepting that that's true, that I _can_ make a difference , that I can help avoid a potentially catastrophic conflict _and_ secure real change for the people in the Fringe—," I pause and step right up to the window, pressing my palms against it. "I still don't know how I'm going to get on that plane."

"You were Dauntless, Tobias. You can't_ not_ get on that plane," Johanna says with confidence as she picks up her bag and marches over to the Bureau worker who's now waving us forward.

I take a deep breath and throw the strap of my bag over my shoulder, following her through the door and out onto the concrete pad. I climb up the airplane's stairs and duck to enter the rounded doorway in its side. When I straighten up, I see rows of compact seats running the length of the tube. Johanna selects one toward the middle of the plane, the seat next to the window. I take the seat right next to the center aisle in the row across from her.

A Bureau worker closes the door, collapsing the stairs in on itself and securing it by turning a long metal lever. Then she tells me the best place to put my bag and reminds me to buckle my seat belt. I hunt around until I find something that looks like a belt and snap it into place over my lap. I had never used anything like that until I climbed into the harness for the zip-line a couple weeks ago, and the similarity between the two circumstances is not lost on me.

I exhale deeply, again, and clutch the arm rests with my hands. The Bureau worker steps to the center of the aisle and addresses us with a cheerful smile.

"We'll taxi onto the runway momentarily. Ms. Reyes, I know you're familiar with the procedure, and I hope you have a good flight. Mr. Johnson," she looks at me and I think she must be able to see how trapped I feel, "you'll feel some pressure during the acceleration and ascent, but after that, things should even out for you."

She turns and settles herself into a seat in the front row, and I can feel the plane begin to roll slowly forward. I suddenly notice how cramped this metal tube seems, and my breathing grows shallow as I imagine it compressing on me the higher and higher we get in the air. I try to picture us flying free, like birds soaring through the boundless blue sky, and I cringe. How can I fight my fear of claustrophobia with my fear of heights? This is ridiculous. I close my eyes.

I don't open them again until I note a change in our forward momentum. Our speed is rapidly increasing, faster and faster, until I sense the front of the plane tipping upward. The pit of my stomach contracts and I wish Tris were here to steady me.

Because I am not steady. It feels like I'm being pulled toward something by an invisible rope attached deep in my core. Like everything in me is being drawn outside of myself, converging on a point I can't identify, for a purpose I am only vaguely aware of. I need to know where it is, so I can know when I finally get there, and am released.


	23. Chapter 23

TOBIAS

When the plane finally starts to descend, my fingers are stiff and achy from gripping the arm rests so hard for so long. I painfully stretch them out, extending and curling them without actually letting go of my seat. I can feel myself begin to drop, and I grasp the worn plastic until my knuckles turn white and my hands tingle. The nose of the plane angles downward and I am conscious of the acceleration in every part of my body. It's not as dramatic as the zip-line, but it lasts longer, and by the time I feel the welcome jarring of the wheels slamming into the ground, I am lightheaded.

I sit in my seat, still disoriented, for a full five minutes after the plane comes to a complete stop. The Bureau worker eyes me with concern but, after I assure her for the second time that I'm fine, she leaves me alone and busies herself with unlocking and releasing the door. Johanna just shakes her head and smiles, content to wait with me until I'm prepared to stand.

I would have thought my body would be ready to bolt from the plane and embrace the security and familiarity of hard earth beneath me, but I am still getting my bearings. The weighty pressure that built within me the entire trip lingers. A burden, tying me to an unknown force.

But I make myself stand and grab my bag so that I can follow Johanna through our exit. I get the feeling the Bureau worker is impatient with me from the way she keeps looking up and sighing while straightening seat belts that don't need to be straightened.

When I step onto the firm concrete, the pressure seems to lift as the air expands around me and, for the first time since arriving at the Bureau earlier today, I fully process my surroundings, letting my eyes roam over everything.

From what I can see, the building looks similar to the one in Chicago, at least in terms of structure, but there the similarities end. Everything is well-lit and bursting with activity. I can make out masses of people through the glass in front of us and realize this airport must be a central point of connection for what remains of civilization on the east coast.

Johanna leads me into the building and I am suddenly overwhelmed by the noise and the numbers after the silence of our flight, for which I was grateful at the time. I should be used to this feeling. It's not unlike what I experienced every single day in the Dauntless compound, constantly shoving my way through raucous crowds. But I knew that place. And I knew those people.

I grip the strap of my bag tightly and follow Johanna as she deftly weaves her way to a moving conveyor belt. I have no idea why this would be preferable to walking—it seems so much slower—but I step up behind her and ride it to the end.

We continue through the building in this way, navigating around groups of people, avoiding this or that obstacle, and riding conveyor belts. Finally, I follow her through sliding glass doors which lead us out into the open, again. There are cars lined all along a curb and Johanna walks directly up to one and climbs in. I fold myself into the seat next to her and stash my bag at my feet, wondering at the panel of glass separating us from the driver.

We leave the airport behind and I am alone with my thoughts, again. Thoughts I am able to hear. I look out the window and marvel at the confusing web of overlapping roads, thankful someone else is driving.

We pass building after building and, I notice, this place was not spared from the Purity wars either. It looks they have made more progress in rebuilding, but I still see crumbling walls and hollowed out structures scattered throughout the urban landscape.

Johanna begins to narrate our journey. "There were uprisings here, too, naturally. But the cities on the east coast were more concentrated and better fortified. So they were better prepared to fight back than those of us in the mid-western states. And they had more ready resources on which to survive. We had crops. They had that, and more." She doesn't mention the west coast, and I remember that it doesn't exist, anymore.

"You'll notice remnants of the destruction, like you might see in the Fringe, every now and then." I nod as we pass a blackened crater right next to what might be a house. There are tiny flowers sprouting in it.

"Most of the country's resources went to running the government and stabilizing the necessities. Utilities, like water and sewage treatment plants and nuclear and electrical power plants. Major roadways and bridges and factories." Johanna looks out her window wistfully. "There wasn't a lot of money for rebuilding homes and neighborhoods, unless people could afford it on their own. Many couldn't. If they couldn't, they left." She frowns, and I frown, too.

"The worst damage occurred in the center of the city, where all the monuments used to be. People wanted to attack all the symbols of our government's prosperity, power, and history. They destroyed a great heritage. Every time I see it, I am ashamed," she says, her voice wavering. She clasps her hands in her lap and I see a tear run down her cheek.

I can't imagine what she has seen that produces such great emotion. But, I will.

She stays quiet for what feels like a long time, and then the landscape around us changes, the network of roads becoming more concentrated and the buildings becoming taller.

"Up there," she whispers, "that is where the Washington Monument used to be. I've seen pictures. It looked like a very tall spire, reaching up to the sky. My description can't do it justice. The pictures probably don't either."

I look to where she points, but all I see is a rectangular lake stretching out across a great lawn. There is a series of broad, stone steps spread out before the lake and, then, at the opposite end, a great stone base. It might be a square.

She shakes her head and turns to me, "Not all the monuments were reduced to this—," she says, gesturing toward the site we have now passed. "But, as I've told you before, most of them were damaged. I've been to the Vietnam Memorial, for example. It was a long wall engraved with all the names of the men who died, there. It's gone, now," she sighs.

"I'm told there was a time when some people wanted to rebuild it. But it never happened. And too much has happened since. Other wars. Other great losses. I suppose," Johanna says thoughtfully, twisting her hands around the strap of her bag, "maybe that is a fitting memorial in itself. A tribute to our arrogance. The effects of what unchecked evil, in all of us, can do."

I try not to let the weight of our history depress me, but it does. I didn't know about any of this, for so long. And even before the Purity Wars, the many other great wars. Johanna lists them all.

The Revoluntionary War. The War of 1812. The Civil War. World War I. World War II. Korea. Vietnam. The Gulf War. She mentions places called Iraq and Afghanistan. She goes on and on. These are just the ones _our country_ was involved in. And the Bureau tried to hide everything. Like denying our history of violence was a denial of our ability to reenact it.

Johanna goes on, "Only one wing of The White House is fit for use, but the President still lives there. And the building where we will meet tomorrow is not the building originally used by the Senate or House of Representatives. It's much smaller."

I nod, again. Yes, that part I remember.

Johanna has told me about the changes to our system of government. Since we no longer have fifty states, we no longer need 100 senators. The populated areas of the country are now divided into 17 regions, and each region has two senators. Each region is then divided into districts, and each district sends a delegate to the House of Representatives. Johanna, is ours. She is one of 212. There used to be 435.

We pull up to a building that appears better maintained than most and Johanna announces, "We're here!"

_So, this must be our hotel_, I think. I step out of the car and wait near the glass door framed in shiny gold as Johanna pays the driver, which I find odd. Amar gives me rides for free.

When she's done, I hold the door open for her and follow her inside. She has to check-in at the reception counter, though I don't know why. So I wander around the great atrium.

There are lots of sparkling lights, everywhere. There is an open lounge where people read books, tap at glass screens, and work on computers while sipping drinks I don't recognize. I also see a little store called a "Gift Shop," though I'm not sure what they sell. Beside it is an establishment that looks like a bar. The Dauntless didn't have much, but they had that. Through another set of doors I see people dining at elegant tables, even though it seems early to me. I also see a sign with the words "Gym" and "Pool" printed on it and an arrow beneath. I will definitely be going there. I'm sure to need it before we leave.

I stand in the center of the atrium, my tour complete, awed. I shove my hands into my pockets and wait, again, for Johanna, wondering how a woman from Amity has gotten used to moving in a world like this. And not only that, but constantly going back and forth between the two. Only someone with a great reserve of serenity could handle that. Which makes Johanna Reyes perfect for this. Me? Not so much. I sigh.

Johanna walks toward me, arm outstretched, a key in her hand. "This is for your room," she says, stating the obvious. It has a gold medallion attached to it engraved with the number 317 in script.

I take it and stare. If the key is this fancy, what is the room like? This is not like any place I've been. It's not at all like the hotel in the Bureau. It's like a compound, like the best of Dauntless and Erudite and Candor headquarters combined, but without the simplicity.

"How is it that there are places—like this?" I ask, gesturing around at the grandeur with my hand.

"Fixing and maintaining the historical monuments costs. Money the government doesn't have. Places like this—," she looks around, "they bring _in_ money. And the government always needs more of it," Johanna explains in a low voice, her face hard.

She looks at me for several moments, and I start to get uncomfortable, shifting the strap of my bag from one shoulder to the other. Then her face softens, and she pushes some stray hairs that have worked loose back behind her ear. Even her unmistakable scar doesn't diminish the mix of kindness and strength clearly visible there.

"Go on up to your room and get settled. Let's meet back here in an hour for dinner. I want to discuss our strategy for the committee meeting tomorrow," she says, already headed toward the elevator.

That's right. I remember, now. The meeting. The reason we're here. How could I forget? I look around me, again. _Easily. Very easily._ The past hardly touches the present, here. Even the damaged city is more spectacular than anything I've seen before. I can understand how the people who live here might forget a lot of things.


	24. Chapter 24

TOBIAS

A warm hand steals across my stomach and moves up my chest. I don't have to open my eyes to know she's there. I can feel her weight shift onto me, her hips pressing against my hips. She is softness and strength, together. Her arms wrap around my neck and she rests her check against my shoulder, gently kissing the space beneath my jaw. She sighs into my ear and whispers, "I love you."

I am overwhelmed by the sudden desire to hold her, and never let go. I roll her onto her side and a loud ringing distracts me.

I groan in frustration and slowly open my heavy eyelids. I expect to feel my hand on her, but it painfully dawns on me that my fingers are entwined in empty bed-sheets. I roll onto my stomach and press my face deep into my pillow, muffling the sob I don't want to release. I don't want to be awake, to know that it wasn't real. That Tris is not here.

I don't have these dreams very often. But when I do, they shatter me.

I flip over onto my back, restless and agitated and breathing heavily. I glance at the clock and see that it reads 6:32 a.m. It was the alarm that woke me. I rub my palms into my eyes, hard, willing myself to regain some composure. Some grip on reality. Because I'm supposed to meet Johanna for breakfast at 7 o'clock, and the committee meeting is at 9.

I sit up and swing my legs off the overly-soft bed. I feel sluggish, even though I must have slept well. Too well. My eyes are bleary, but the room looks the same this morning as it did yesterday. Polished and clean and perfectly decorated. This one room holds twice as much furniture as my entire apartment. Everything in it depresses me.

I stiffly walk to the large closet and open the door, where my one suit hangs pitifully alone. I've never worn it before, but Johanna insisted on ordering it for me when I agreed to be her assistant—just in case, she said. Everything about it is foreign to me, and I'm not ready to put it on. Like I'll be putting on something false.

I go to the sink and avoid looking in the mirror, content to splash cold water over my face with my red eyes shut.

When I feel moderately alert and resolved, I go back to the closet and grab the suit, tossing it onto the bed. I wonder in passing if it will get wrinkled, but if the trip didn't do that already, then I'm not too worried. I'm in no rush to flatten it out, anyway. I pull on the sleek dark gray pants, then the light blue shirt, then the matching dark gray coat. It feels like I'm wearing a straight-jacket.

Finally, I return to the mirror and examine my appearance. Black ink peaks over the collar, as I expected. And I manage a satisfied smile.

Yesterday, I wished that I could hide my tattoos. Or, that they weren't there at all. I worried my presence would be a distraction. But today, I am glad they're there. They are part of who I am. Putting on a suit might catch someone's attention, but it's the least important part of me and what I have to offer, the parts Tris would want me to be proud of. They set me apart from this place, and I want that.

I grab my bag and my key, sticking my hand inside to verify the computer is still there. My hand touches something smooth and cool, and I smile as it closes around the blue glass sculpture Evelyn sneaked into my bag. I pull it out and set it on the small table by the unmade bed, in front of the alarm clock. It is whole and beautiful and not-shattered. It's what I need to be.

The door clicks behind me as I leave, cutting off my line of sight, but I hold the memory of that sculpture in my mind until I meet Johanna in the lobby.

We enter the same dining room where we ate dinner last night, and I fidget as I look over the menu. I much prefer the cafeteria style of eating to sitting and waiting to be served. My fingers drum a pattern into the table until a woman seated next to us starts glaring at me.

As soon as the waiter arrives, I order the first thing on the breakfast menu, without bothering to read through the rest of the options. I'm thankful when the food comes promptly, and even more thankful when I'm done. Unfortunately, Johanna is used to a more leisurely pace, and I sit quietly as she finishes her meal. I'm aware enough to avoid drumming my fingers, again, but my knee bounces beneath the table.

I jump up when she signals that she's ready to leave, and I have to force myself to match her more deliberate gate through the hotel and out to the street. She hails another car, which she calls a cab, and instructs the driver to take us to the Congressional Building.

I'm less interested in the images passing outside my window, today, and I'm surprised when the driver tells us that we've already arrived. I hardly registered the movement or passage of time at all. Only the uncomfortable sensation that things outside my sphere of influence are converging, and I'm just caught in the middle.

We climb out of the cab in front of a plain and unimpressive building, by the city's standards. It's a two-story rectangular structure with a stone façade and a small bronze plaque next to the entrance that simply reads "Congressional Building." It doesn't get much plainer than that, and I wonder what the original building looked like.

We enter through a set of double doors and are greeted by guards at a security check-point, similar to the one at the Bureau. But these machines look newer and prove to be more efficient, and I am grateful for every second I don't have to stand inside the box. We are nodded through with business-like smiles, and I follow Johanna through a small central room and down a side hallway, our shoes clicking over the slick floors.

Old photographs cover the walls, and I stare at them, wide-eyed, as we walk past. Some of them look vaguely familiar, like the site of the Washington Monument, which I saw yesterday. But most of them are faces and places I've never seen.

It's intimidating in a way I don't quite understand. Not like the imposing blackness of the Dauntless chasm. It's more like the way I suppose Peter felt the longer we stayed at the Bureau. An intimidation that comes when you recognize your insignificance.

There is a long wooden bench outside a door at the end of the hall, and Johanna takes a seat on it, nodding at me to join her.

"One of the aides will come get us when it's our turn," she says, her eyes moving over the pictures near us.

"Have you spoken to this committee before?" I ask, trying to swallow my unreasonable nerves.

"No," Johanna says calmly, folding her hands in her lap. "Representatives aren't often admitted to Senate committee meetings. We generally have our own work to do and our own meetings to attend," she says, matter of fact. "But this is a special case. We're lucky to receive a hearing."

She said it again._ Lucky_. I wonder how she managed it, then, if it's so unusual. Of course, Johanna is an unusual person. She can be very charismatic and persuasive, in her own way, when it suits her.

I nod and fiddle with my bag, startled when the door swings open and a youngish woman in a dark purple suit comes through, hand already extended in greeting. Her brown hair is pulled back like Johanna's, and she has a glass screen tucked under her arm. Her demeanor is confident, and I think she must do her job very well.

"My name is Alex. Alex Jamison. I'm the chief aide to Senator Crawford, chairman of the Committee." She shakes Johanna's hand firmly and reaches for mine. It wasn't an Abnegation or Dauntless custom, but I go along with it, not wanting to be rude or ruin our chances of success before we've even begun.

"Follow me," she says tersely, and we follow her into the room.

At the front, on a raised platform, is a long table, and five men and women are already seated there. I assume they are the committee members. The man in the middle has a sign reading "Chairman" sitting before him. He has glasses, wavy dark hair streaked with gray, and a small paunch of a belly. His face is unforgiving, and he lounges in his chair as though he's already bored with the day. I think he is the kind of man who's difficult to please, and always gets what he wants.

There are rows of chairs in rising levels around the semi-circular room. But Alex walks directly to the nearest aisle and leads us to a smaller table in the very center of the room. Johanna and I each take a chair and start to lay out our materials. We are below the eye-level of the committee, who look very imposing. I'm guessing they're supposed to be.

Eventually, someone signals to Senator Crawford that it's time to begin, and he rolls his eyes. He begrudgingly swivels to face us and folds his hands in front of him. He stares at us expectantly and then loudly clears his throat. "Well?" he asks impatiently.

Johanna stands up and runs her hands over her skirt. I see that they're shaking. "I'm Representative Reyes, and it's an honor to be here. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. We know your time is very valuable, but we have an important and truly life-changing proposal to make to you today."

Crawford raises his eyebrows skeptically, then stares with glazed eyes over Johanna's head at a point in the back of the room.

"I'm sure you're familiar with the city of Chicago, which we've been rebuilding for the last two and a half years after the termination of the experiments there," Johanna pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing. "In conjunction with that, it has come to my attention that the region on the outskirts of the city—known as the Fringe—has some urgent needs that are really essential to improving the people's quality of life and increasing their ability to fully function as contributing citizens."

The committee members start to chatter quietly with one another, and I feel worry creeping into my confidence. If we're already losing their attention, it's a bad thing.

But Johanna goes on, undeterred. "I've reviewed many relevant studies and—."

"What is it that you want, Representative Reyes?" Crawford interrupts her brashly, leaning forward over the table.

"W—well," she stutters, attempting to regain her momentum, "we want to build a school. In the Fringe. To educate them where they live." She holds her hands at her chest, her face relaxed, now, her eyes clear. I'm reminded of the first time I saw her before the people of Amity. Her leadership was evident even in her composure.

"A school?" he says flatly, slapping both hands on the table.

"Well, yes. It's really very—," she says, holding out her hands.

"You procured a time slot in our very busy schedule in order to ask for a school?" Crawford repeats, incredulous, sitting back in his chair.

"There's been a great deal of con—," Johanna tries again, picking up the proposals we brought, one copy for each member of the committee.

"Ms. Reyes, there is no money for a school. Especially not in the middle of a run-down area where very little infrastructure exists to support it, and I doubt very many would appreciate it," he says sternly, like we're children, and he's teaching us a lesson.

"But, my assistant, here, prepared a presentation for you," she says, gesturing desperately toward me and the computer on the table in front of me. "Please, won't you give him a chance to—."

"With all due respect, Representative," Crawford interrupts condescendingly, "nothing in that proposal will magically produce funds for such a project, and nothing you, or your assistant, can say would induce me to re-allocate funds from another worthy cause. Thank you, we must now get on with our day."

Crawford swivels in his chair and begins animatedly conversing with the committee member on his left. Johanna and I are both stunned. After all our hard work, and with the knowledge of what's at stake back in Chicago, we honestly didn't expect this. I wasn't sure we would be successful. But I did expect to be heard.

Neither of us knows what to do, and we just stare at each other, helpless and confused, until Alex appears with her mouth set in a firm line. I realize we are effectively excused. We gather our things, and she walks us out of the room.

I sink onto the bench outside the door, dropping my head into my hands. I hadn't thought this far ahead, and I have no contingency plan.

Johanna stands next to me, clasping and unclasping her hands. She speaks and unknowingly answers my fears. "Don't worry yet, Tobias. Rafi said this needed to happen _soon_. But we have no reason to believe the attack on the Bureau is imminent," she says, trying to reassure us both. "Give me a little time, and I'll see what else I can do."

She takes a deep breath, settling herself, and says, "You go back to the hotel. I'll call you there if I need you."

I nod and watch her clutch her bag tightly as she walks back down the hallway with determined steps. I stay where I am. She told me to go, and I will. Just not yet.

Everyone told me that I had something unique to bring to this problem. That I was a leader, the _right_ leader, to help find a solution. I started to believe them. But I didn't even get a chance, and I feel like an idiot for trying.

I'm so lost in the depths of my frustration that I don't notice Alex Jamison walking down the hall until she's standing right next to me. Her face is hard and she shoves a plain, unmarked folder into my lap.

"Take a look at this, when you get the chance," she says, looking around furtively. "It might help." Then she turns on her heal and briskly strides down the hall without another word.

I watch her go and then shove the folder angrily into my bag. All I want to do right now is hit something. And I know where I can go for that.


	25. Chapter 25

TOBIAS

I stop in my room just long enough to throw my bag on the bed and change into the shirt and pants I slept in the night before. Then I head straight to the gym on the first floor of the hotel. I don't know what kind of gym they have, here, but I hope to find something strong enough to absorb the rising frustration that threatens to boil over in me.

I push through the gym doors and am momentarily confused. I don't see any familiar equipment at first glance. In fact, all I see are rows of machines and walls of mirrors. Most of the people in the gym are more appropriately dressed for a night out than a work out. Many of them stop to admire themselves in the mirrors more often than they lift the weights they hold. I see so little sweat that I wonder if they expend an equal amount of energy sitting at their desks all day. The woman in the corner to my right, who_ is_ sweating, is fixing her make-up in one of the mirrors. I shake my head, all the more frustrated.

A quick walk around the perimeter of the gym leads me to a side room filled with what I need. My lips curl in anticipation as I step onto the padded floor and appraise the set up. There are four punching bags hanging from the ceiling, evenly spaced around the room. I also see a pile of sparring gloves and protective gear in the corner, but I don't bother with any of that.

I move right up to the bag, grit my teeth, and land jab, after jab, after jab. I punch until my shoulder and bicep burn, and then switch sides. I attack the bag with elbows, knees, and kicks, grunting under the intense force of my exertion. With every point of contact, I relish the sting of my flesh and bone meeting the unforgiving object of my assault.

At first, I am distracted by the mirrors that box me in, but then I embrace my reflections. It's like I'm fighting against myself. People come in and out of the room, but I ignore them. None of them stay long. I think I frighten them, with my tattooed neck and my strange fierceness.

I decide to call it quits when my shirt is drenched through, and I wonder fleetingly what I'll sleep in that night. People stare at me as I walk through the hotel back to my room, as though they've never seen someone sweat before. Or they've just never seen someone like me. I can't help grinning and standing a little straighter. I know I can be intimidating when I want to be and, right now, I'm tired of feeling useless and powerless.

Only after I reach my room do I feel a little ashamed of myself. I know, firsthand, that while intimidation can be effective, it's more about fear, than respect. And good leadership is more about confidence with humility than about power and arrogance. Those were things Eric never understood when he was overseeing the Dauntless-initiate training. My father didn't understand them either. A good leader inspires people to follow him, without having to force them to do so.

I sigh and pull at the wet shirt that stubbornly clings to my skin. I wonder if there will always be a conflict between what I want to be and what I am. If I will ever get to stop making these intentional choices, over and over, because it's suddenly become natural. If I will ever stop struggling.

I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the glass sculpture. I do that a lot. Mostly, because I'm still trying to figure out what it represents, to me. Maybe today, it's that I want peace. Peace about the struggle. Because at least I'm fighting. Fighting with myself. And if I'm fighting with myself, I'm not fighting with anyone else, which is a kind of peace.

Tired, and now hungry, I jump into the shower and decide to find some lunch as soon as the evidence of this morning's disappointments is washed away.

I've just emerged from the bathroom when the telephone on the desk across from my bed rings. I run to it, hoping it's Johanna with good news.

"Hello?" I say, a little out of breath as I adjust my towel and lean against the desk.

"Mr. Johnson. How was the meeting?" says a familiar voice on the other end of the line.

"Rafi?" I ask, surprised. "How did you find me?"

"It wasn't difficult, Mr. Johnson. I have a lot of friends, and one of them happened to know when you left for Washington. After that, it was a simple matter of locating the right hotel. And there aren't that many," he says evenly.

"Yes, well, the meeting was this morning," I say, undeniably flustered. I wasn't expecting to give Rafi a report, yet. And I'm not sure how he'll react to it.

"I know that," Rafi says patiently. "And what happened? What were the results?"

I hesitate. I could try to lie, but I don't like to. Besides, I'm pretty bad at it.

"It didn't go well," I admit, beginning to pace in the space between the desk and the bed. "The chairman of the committee didn't even let us finish our presentation. He just flat-out denied our proposal."

"So, there's no school?" he asks without emotion.

"There's no school," I concede, the frustration I fought hard to release rising in me, again.

"I see," he says shortly.

I'm worried by Rafi's resignation and what that will mean, so I rush to add, "But Johanna's still working on it. There may be more we can do!"

"Thank you for trying, Mr. Johnson. Your willingness to act on our behalf was admirable. It's unfortunate that that was not enough. Good-bye."

I hear dead air on the other end and start to feel panicky. I put the phone back in it's receiver and run my hand through my hair before beginning to pace around the room, again. I've just decided to get dressed and try to go find Johanna, when the phone rings.

I lunge for it and answer, "Rafi?!"

"The leaders of the Fringe are unwilling to wait any longer, continuing to hope in more unfulfilled promises. The attack will go forward as planned, on Sunday morning." Click.

I drop the telephone and sit down heavily on the bed.

Should I notify the Bureau and give them a chance to best defend themselves?_ I wouldn't put it past them to engage in a preemptive attack!_ I think to myself. Either way, a lot of people will be injured—or killed.

I feel completely trapped in an impossible situation. Like I am repeating all the mistakes I've ever made trying to resolve conflicts. Stuck, trying to choose between two bad choices, knowing that both will hurt someone. I let out a strangled cry and toss my bag across the room.

As soon as the surge of adrenaline passes, I rush over to the bag. As unimportant as it seems right now, I would feel badly later if I damaged Johanna's computer. So I examine it carefully and am thankful there are no noticeable cracks. It turns on right away when I press the power button, and I exhale in relief.

I am about to shove it back in the bag when I notice the folder from Alex Jamison. I pick it up and open it, curious. It looks like a file of some kind. At the top is the word "CLASSIFIED," stamped in big, red block letters. My eyes skim down the page until I see, "Patient: BEATRICE PRIOR."

I feel like my heart stops in the second it takes me to understand what I've read. _What is this_?! I frantically flip the page over and, attached to the upper left corner of the page, is a picture. A picture of her lifeless body.

I can't breathe and I sink to the floor. All I've wanted for two and a half years was to see her, again. But not this way. Not like this.

And then, something my eyes processed while my brain did not, finally registers. I flip back to the first page, and my heart starts beating again. The date on the file. It was dated one and a half years ago—and exactly one year _after_ I saw her for the last time, in the Bureau morgue.


	26. Chapter 26

TRIS

I lie in bed, unmoving, staring at the ceiling. It's been two days since my escape attempt, and Beth doesn't come anymore. Only Andrew.

He brings my breakfast tray, accompanied by Terry, the guard, who snips one of my wrist restraints so I can eat. They both watch me. They watch me do everything. It's both mortifying and depressing. Then, after my tray and potential-weapon are removed, Terry frees the rest of my limbs so that Andrew can put me through my exercises.

I do it because it means getting out of bed, not because I believe it will make a difference, anymore. I am strong enough to live, therefore I am strong enough to die.

When we are done, I crawl back into bed under their watchful eyes, and Terry re-attaches me to the bed rails.

And then, they are gone, and I am glad. Because when they are gone, I spend my time with dream-Tobias. He holds me, and I'm not alone.


	27. Chapter 27

TOBIAS

I hungrily pour over the thin file, again, carefully scrutinizing every word. This is what I read:

Patient: BEATRICE PRIOR

Initial Report:

Patient sustained near-fatal injuries to chest and neck. Paralytic and local coagulant administered on site by M. Patient transferred by plane to GWU Hospital. Surgery performed by Drs. A.W. and K. L. Patient stabilized. Patient transferred to secure facility XXXXXXX. Nutrition and hydration lines inserted.

Current Status:

UNCONSCIOUS

Update:

(6 months)

Patient exposed to minimal surface dose D.S. Results inconclusive.

Current Status:

UNCONSCIOUS

Update:

(12 months)

No new treatments.

Current Status:

TERMINATED

Approved _BRC_


	28. Chapter 28

TOBIAS

I am on hold with the receptionist at the Congressional Building. I chew on the inside of my cheek, knowing I will taste blood, soon, if she doesn't come back on the line. I hate telephones.

As soon as I finished reading the file from Alex Jamison, I thought of the front desk, where Johanna checked us into the hotel. If they are there to provide information, I figured they could help me with this.

I flew down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator. I wanted to feel my body's forward momentum, to know that I was moving toward answers with every second that passed. So it grated on me to stand at the counter patiently while the woman seated there calmly looked up the number I needed.

I'm sure I looked more than a little crazed to the people milling around, not even considering how I tore back through the atrium and took three flights of stairs two steps at a time. I felt so near exploding that I could hardly get the key into the lock when I reached my room.

I still do. And now I am waiting. Again. It is insufferable.

A woman's monotone voice finally comes on the line. "Please hold for Alex Jamison."

"Hello? Hello? I—," I shout into the phone, with no reply. I want to crush it, but I need it. Why do we humans do this to ourselves? Make ourselves so dependent on all the technology around us? I feel helpless, again.

Then, there is a click, and I hear, "Yes? Hello?"

"Alex Jamison? Is that you?" I say excitedly, my words a jumbled mess as I clutch the desk with my right hand to support myself.

"Uh, yes," she says, unsure. "May I ask who's speaking?"

"This is Tobias. Tobias Johnson. From the committee meeting this morning!" I say, my heart beating so loudly I think she must hear it.

"Oh, yes. Mr. Johnson, I—," she begins, but I interrupt her. I can't wait anymore.

"Alex, why did you give me that file? What does it mean?" I ask desperately, my right arm going numb from being locked for so long.

"Mr. Johnson, I only know that it was a classified project and—I thought it might mean something to you," Alex says, hesitantly.

I need more explanation than that. I have to push her. "Project? What kind of project?" I say forcefully.

"Well, I—it was an experiment. And I know that you knew her—Beatrice Prior. I've seen other reports—," her voice trails off into silence.

"Experiment?" I say, my stomach dropping the way it did when I rode the airplane to the ground. I may as well be crashing.

"Yes. It was terminated at the year mark. The experiment was unsuccessful. I believe it says all that in the file," Alex says, confused.

"But why—?" I begin to yell, cupping my hand over my mouth to control myself. If I can't will myself to do it, I'll do it physically. _Why?!_ My agitation bubbles under the surface and I fight to stay calm, clear-headed. I'm always fighting.

"I don't know. I assumed the patient was unable to continue. It said, 'No new treatments' and 'terminated,'" she explains, starting to sound distraught. "I'm sorry—."

"Yes, you said that. It said that," I say, my voice hollow as the numbing acceptance overwhelms me. It is my very own paralytic.

_Did I really just lose her a second time? _

"Why?" I whisper through trembling lips, "why did you give me this information?"

"So you can use it," she says, her voice made of steel, now.

"How?" I ask, collapsing into the chair at the desk.

"Senator Crawford approved that experiment. His initials are on it. And I guarantee you he wouldn't want this traced back to him. People are very wary of any type of experimentation on humans these days. I'm sure you can understand why," Alex says pointedly. "Especially, on an unwilling one."

I nod, though she can't see me. Yes, of course I can understand why. I've been a part of too many experiments at the hands of ruthless men and women. I feel cold all over. I want to give in to it, but my mind catches on one word and won't let me.

"Unwilling?" I repeat, dazed.

"Well, it says she was unconscious, doesn't it? She certainly didn't give her consent," she spits into the phone.

"No, she didn't," I agree. My mind shifts into gear and starts turning, in spite of myself. I feel warmth permeating through me, again. Hot and fiery. No, she didn't agree. And, no, Senator Crawford wouldn't want this attached to him. _I can use it._

My rage is harnessed and contained within my stony exterior, now. I see the sculpture on my table, and it is not peaceful waters, it is a consuming flood.

I know what I will do. I'll have a talk with Senator Crawford, and we'll reach an understanding. He _will_ give us that school, and I will have more than an unfulfilled promise for Rafi. It's only Thursday. I have time.

I am about to hang up the telephone, when I pause, and bring it back to my mouth. "Why did you do this?" I ask, again.

"Because I have lived in a place like the Fringe, where people desperately need hope, and have none," Alex says flatly. Her voice turns icy, "Because I have worked for Senator Crawford for years, trying to change things, trying to work within the system to help the people who need it most. But it's clear to me, after the way he treated you today, that he needs a little motivation. It's like physics. The motion of an object remains unchanged unless acted on by an outside force."

She exhales loudly. "_You_ be the outside force."

Yes, I can do that.

I remember that not an hour ago I was thinking over the characteristics of a good leader. That he does not force compliance, he inspires it. Well, I don't need Senator Crawford to follow me. I need him to do what I want. And I think, he will be very inspired.


	29. Chapter 29

TOBIAS

I take a cab back to the Congressional Building and sit on a stone bench across the street to wait for Senator Crawford. I have changed back into my nice pants and button-down, though I left the suit coat lying haphazardly on the bed. I did not tell Johanna where I was going. I don't want to get her into trouble or jeopardize her position, here. I'm taking responsibility for this, like I told Rafi I would.

By the time I see him exit the building, it's getting dark. He's loosened his tie, hung his folded coat over one arm and is looking at his watch rather than where he's going. I stride purposefully across the street, stopping only when I'm a few feet away. Crawford still doesn't see me.

"Have a drink with me, Senator," I say casually, trying to project the cool confidence that served me well in Dauntless. It's too firm to be a question, but without the edge that makes it an outright command. The implication, without the threat.

He glances up, startled, and the light of recognition dawns in his eyes. He looks me over, sizing me up. Considering. His mouth puckers slightly, as though he's tasted something sour. Then he nods. "Alright. But you're buying," and proceeds down the sidewalk.

I can tell by his gate that this will not be the first drink he's had, today. "Are you allowed to accept gifts, Senator?" I say slyly, catching up to him and matching his stride.

He squints at me and raises an eyebrow. "Will you be trying to bribe me, Mr—?

"Johnson." I interject pointedly. "And, no."

"Ah. That's right. Mr. Johnson. It was listed on today's agenda." He looks at his watch, again. "Then we will call this a friendly negotiation. You will ardently attempt to persuade me of the merits of your position—and I will pretend to listen." He laughs heartily at his own joke.

My lip curls and I imagine myself grabbing him by his tie and dragging him over to stone wall on our right, where I would hoist him against it and punch him in his soft stomach. No. Wait. Square in the jaw to mess up his smiling face.

I clench my fists until my knuckles are white and the fingernails dig into my flesh. That would probably get me what I want. Maybe even faster. It would definitely be more satisfying. But there are other ways to inspire. Ways that don't require me to be the person I am overcoming. Luckily, I am well-versed in both.

He ducks through a door and I follow along behind him, pulled, as though there's a magnetic connection between us.

My eyes adjust to the dim light, and I take in the long bar with an equally long row of bar stools filled with patrons, sleeves rolled up and suit coats discarded. There are tables scattered around the rectangular room, and Crawford selects one to our left, by the door. He sits with his back to it, and I take the chair across from him.

"We need that school," I blurt out before I'm even settled.

"Why?" He ask flatly, staring me down.

I hesitate before plunging ahead. "Because education is what gives people choice. It shows them a world beyond the one they're stuck in. It gives them," I pause before committing. I know how this will sound to him. I know how it sounds to me. But— "it gives them hope," I conclude with a heavy sigh.

Crawford looks at me over the rim of his glasses and lets loose another loud burst of laughter. "Ha! So you're an idealist, Mr. Johnson. I didn't expect that," he chuckles, clearly amused, and raises his hand to call for a waiter.

"No," I say quietly. "Not an idealist. I've seen too much to be that."

"In which case, you can't be naïve," he says condescendingly, running his eyes greedily over the drink menu.

"I would call myself—cautiously optimistic," I say, with a slight smile, leaning back in my chair.

He regards me, head cocked to the side, taking his eyes off the menu long enough to order his drink of preference without ever actually having to look at the waiter himself. When he's satisfied the alcohol will be shortly forthcoming, his lips pull over white, gleaming teeth. "Now you sound like a politician."

"I'm not," I say curtly. Whatever I am, it's not that. Not what he is.

"Yes, I can see that," Crawford says, looking me over again, his lips pursed unpleasantly.

I get the urge to cover up my tattoos, but I don't. Let him see them.

He lets out a loud _humph _and says, "I told you. The money's not there. Even if I wanted to give it to you—which I'm not sure I do—we already allocated all the funds we could to rebuilding the infrastructure of your city."

My eyes narrow and I press my mouth into a firm line.

He continues smoothly, "You really should be thankful for how far Chicago has come in such a short time, especially when so many other cities are in dire straights, too. There's simply not anything left right now for the outlying regions—for the Fringe," he smirks, looking down his nose at me, pitying me. Putting me in my place.

I cringe at his words and cross my arms over my chest. "That's what I thought you would say."

"Yes, well, good effort," he laughs, tossing back the drink that just arrived before setting the glass back on the table so that the ice cubes clatter in the bottom.

"I assumed you would take—convincing," I say, opting for the straightforward approach. Really getting his attention wouldn't hurt, either.

I hesitate, thinking, staring at the wall at the other end of the bar. It blurs and grows in the tunnel of my focused vision. I see nothing but my target. I smile involuntarily.

Crawford is disconcerted by the unnaturally glassy look in my eyes and the pause in the conversation. He looks over his shoulder and back at me, waiting.

"I could pick up this knife and hit the face in that picture. The one over there. On the far wall. No," I say slowly, letting my words hang in the air, filling up the space between us, "not just the face. The nose. I'm that good," I say, simply stating a fact. Completely nonchalant.

He frowns and picks up the glass tumbler, swirling the ice cubes around and around. "Is that how you handle things where you're from?" He sounds casual, but I catch the menacing undertone. He is not new to this game.

_Yes, it is_, I think. _You know it is_.

But I carefully say, "Not anymore. I was just making conversation, so you could get to know me better. Things are so—different—where I'm from. Seemed like a good ice breaker," I say with a calculated smile, eying the glass he has continued to swirl around noisily.

He sets the tumbler back down and leans his elbows on the table heavily. It groans and shifts under his weight. "I'm not sure I would consider that _friendly_ conversation, Mr. Johnson. Clearly you're new to this. So I'll enlighten you. In a negotiation, you have to have a bargaining chip. Something the other player wants. Or, as the case may be, something they don't want you to have. Either way, you need leverage. And you have none."

Crawford leans back, satisfied with himself. I clutch my knee under the table, desperately desiring to show him some of my _other_ interesting skills. Instead, I slide my hand beneath my thigh and pull out the file that has been wedged safely between my leg and the chair. I calmly lay it on the table and watch as recognition spreads over his face.

"Where did get you that?" he asks, trying to appear unruffled. But I know better.

"That's not important," I say calmly, toying with the knife beside my unused napkin. "But, what _is_ important, is that I know what's in this file. And there are a lot of other people who would be interested in this information, as well."

"Why should I be afraid of that?" he asks, testing the waters. The waiter arrives to ask about another drink, and Crawford hastily waves him away, agitated.

"Let me spell it out for you," I say, relishing this moment, this moment where I finally have the upper hand. "You don't want more violence in the Fringe. Not only that, you don't want another full-fledged uprising, especially against government workers. It reflects badly on you, here. How could they possibly let you keep your cushy position as chair of the Committee for Peaceful Domestic Relations if anything else goes wrong in our region?"

I let that sink in for a minute. He's fidgeting with his tie and running his finger along the ridge between his neck and collar, strain evident on his face. I smile. I'm hitting the mark, and I don't even need a knife to do it.

"Let me assure you, Senator Crawford, that if I make it known to the people in the Fringe that you, a government representative, have continued engaging in the same type of unethical experiments, without any regard for the value of human life, that perpetuated the oppression they suffered at the hands of the Bureau," I pause and steadily meet his eyes, "well, let's just say, another uprising will be inevitable. Their resentment has been festering for a long time, now. And they're on the verge already. I just need to push them over the edge." I speak deliberately, slowly, letting my words take maximum effect.

"But that's the least of your worries," I say, smug. I stop to enjoy the slight bulging of his eyes and watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows uncomfortably.

"Not only would you surely lose your position as chair, but I think it likely you would never be re-elected again. Of course, that's just my humble opinion," I say with a satisfied smile.

I can see the varying emotions flit across his face. Anger, at what he considers my impertinence. Fear, at the acknowledgment of the truth. Resignation, as he accepts our altered positions in this game. Calculation, as he decides what to do next.

Crawford clears his throat and folds his hands across his stomach, flexing and extending his fingers intermittently. "Clearly, I underestimated you, Mr. Johnson. What is it that you want—exactly?

"I told you. I want the school. It will do them no good to know the truth about what really happened—to _her_. But—," I pause and swallow, determined to see this through. "But, they _can_ know the truth about everything else. The truth about our history. The truth about how government and societies can and ought to function. The truth about what they're capable of. That truth about what _you're_ capable of."

He smirks at me, and I see his upper lip curl slightly. "That's all you want? That school?" he scoffs. "Even if I went back to the committee tomorrow and slipped an amendment earmarking funds for that purpose into the next piece of legislation, don't you realize that actual monies for that wouldn't be realized for another year or two, at least?"

He smiles again, pleased to be back on equal footing. Pleased to know what I do not know. How the process actually works.

"I could probably get you a school—eventually. But you wouldn't see that building tomorrow. Will those people be satisfied with that?" Crawford asks pointedly, raising his hand for another drink after all.

He can see the frown on my face and knows the answer.

"However, I can give you something better than that,_ if _you can promise me there will be no uprising and—," he stops and caresses the file on the table. "And, if you can promise that whatever truth you give them, it will not be the truth contained here. And it _won't_ have my name in it, anywhere."

My eyes narrow, again, and I glare at him, wondering what he could possibly know that trumps what I hold against him. "What could you give me that would ever induce me to make those promises?" I ask.

Crawford grins broadly and picks the file up from the table. "I can give you Beatrice Prior."


	30. Chapter 30

TOBIAS

I grip the edges of the table to steady myself, confused. I shake my head as if to clear the fog and look up at Crawford, anger burning in my eyes.

He cannot mean what he says. I've read the file. And I won't let him manipulate me this way. How dare he even try. It's because he knows—everyone knows—what I would do for her. I would do anything.

"How can you say that?" I ask, my voice so low and quiet, and full of disdain, that Crawford's mouth twitches.

"Because I _can_," he says, stroking his tie. "She's alive."

His words are like a bomb exploding in my ears. I hear nothing else, and all my senses seem temporarily dulled, replaced only by ringing and disorientation. It can't be. I read the file. I read it.

I shake my head, again. "What do you mean? The file said 'terminated.'" I hate to say it, but we are trading heavy words, now, and I have to say it to know for sure what's real.

"The experiment was officially terminated, yes," Crawford says, sipping his drink. "Unofficially, it would be more accurate to say it was—disavowed. It did not seem prudent or advantageous to continue overtly funneling resources to a project that might never produce any results. And certainly not to keep any further records of it. I am a far-sighted man, Mr. Johnson."

I don't know how to respond. Can what he says possibly be true? And what if it is? I lean forward and put my head in my hands. "And the patient?" I whisper.

"As I said. Alive. And conscious, as of almost two weeks, now," he says, as if he's discussing nothing more serious than his drink order. He adjusts his glasses and stares at me, waiting.

It's sinking into my thick head, finally, and my heart starts racing uncontrollably. I bolt from my seat with every intention of grabbing him by the throat when he holds up a hand and says coolly, "I wouldn't do that, if I were you. If you lay even a finger on me, for any reason, you will most certainly be arrested for assault. And you're smart enough, I think, to realize that you can't act on my information from a prison cell."

His face is hard and his eyes harder. _What was this man going to do to her_, I wonder?

I slowly sit back down, forcing myself to think in spite of the continuous pounding between my ears. "Where is she?" I ask unsteadily. Then more firmly, "Tell me where she is."

"She is at a secure facility for patients in special circumstances. The experiment is scheduled for Saturday morning. If test results are good, I expect she will be free to go," he says simply, lifting his drink to his lips, again.

"What is the experiment, exactly?" I ask, a deep ache in the pit of my stomach. I want to look him in the eye, but I can't, so I stare at the empty table in front of me.

"She is scheduled to be injected with the Death Serum and monitored during the procedure so that her measure of resistance to it can be evaluated for possible medical and scientific advances," he says, completely matter of fact.

I stop breathing as my mind processes what he says. _D.S. _Death Serum. They can't possibly be deranged enough to do that. "But why—why an injection?" I ask in disbelief.

"To ensure the best and most accurate results," Crawford says without feeling, staring at the ice cubes that float in his half-empty glass. "Based on her past history of resistance, the consensus was that the odds of success were reasonably good."

I jump to my feet again, leaning in as close as I dare. "This is_ not_ going to happen. Do you understand? I won't let it. I will do anything, absolutely anything, to get her out of there," I spit through clenched teeth.

"I thought as much," he says with the satisfied smile of a man who has gambled, and won.

"And you won't try to stop me?" I ask, incredulous, glaring at him with such intensity that the people around us begin to stare.

Crawford casually waves me back to my seat and asks, "Why would I?"

He watches me thoughtfully, waiting, but I have no answer for him, so he continues, "You can go in and get her, because she's not supposed to be there, and no one will be able to say a word about it." He folds his hands in front of him, business-like, and says, "I can't promise they won't try to stop you. But I _can_ promise they won't be calling in—outside reinforcements—to arrest you or charge you. It's all about deniability."

"Why don't you just let her go?" I ask angrily, clutching my knife tightly. I need to hold something that makes me feel strong, even though it shouldn't.

Crawford shakes his head almost imperceptibly, as though he's disappointed in my lack of insight, and says, "I won't order her release, because I don't want my fingerprints anywhere near this."

I bite my lip and consider him for a moment. Everything I know about him makes me skeptical, uneasy. Because I suspect lying comes as naturally as breathing for him, when it serves his purpose. "And what about the results of the experiment? Are you willing to just give that up?" I ask, uncertain.

"Mr. Johnson," he says languidly, finishing off his drink, "I may be far-sighted in politics, but I am also a pragmatist. And, in this situation, I'm willing to chose the option that works out best—for _me_."

I watch his face and know that every word of it is true. He will let me have her. He will defy anyone else with a vested interest in the outcome just to save his own skin. I shake my head. I came here tonight intending to use this file to get what I wanted. Instead, this information will get me something I didn't know I could have.

I exhale heavily, feeling lightheaded and euphoric and overwhelmingly anxious all at the same time. Like I finally know what I've been moving toward since I strapped myself into that plane yesterday. With every fiber of my being, I want to run straight out of this bar and go to her, right now.

I look up at Crawford, swirling his finger around the melting ice cubes in his glass, seemingly oblivious to me, and say, "I'll need details, information on where she is and how to get to her."

"I assumed you would," he says, raising his hand for a third drink. I wonder how I'm going to get what I need from him if he keeps this up.

"Well?" I say expectantly, when he doesn't go on. Now it's my turn to be frustrated by his lack of insight.

"I can't get it for you tonight," he says flatly, laying his hands on the table in front of him. "You'll have to come to my office tomorrow."

"I don't understand," I say, frustrated. I want to take the knife in my hand and drive it into the table. Any delay is unacceptable.

"You'll need more than just the address, Mr. Johnson. You'll need schematics of the facility. A layout of the building. Security system plans. And I don't have access to that, right now," Crawford explains plainly. He takes a sip of his new drink and some of the golden liquor splashes onto the table.

"Why not?" I ask, exasperated with this entire conversation. The ache inside me seems to grow exponentially as the minutes tick by, and I cross my arms over my chest. I'm no longer containing my rage, but other deeper, stronger emotions.

"Well, I don't keep that sort of thing in my office. It's at the Library of Congress, such as it is. And the Library of Congress is closed. Everyone's gone home. You'll just have to wait," he says, smirking. I wish I had throttled the man when the inclination first struck me.

I exhale forcefully and lean forward. "I'm sure we can figure out how to _open_ it for our purposes," I say, hoping he understands my meaning.

"And, again, you'd end up arrested and imprisoned. This time, for breaking and entering. The security systems are very advanced, and I doubt you have equipment with you to bypass it. The parameters are very strict. No one—not me, not any other government employee—gets admitted after hours. It's _closed,_" Crawford says with finality before standing up and sliding his arms into the sleeves of his coat.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be calling a cab. I trust I'll see you first thing in the morning." He reaches out to shake my hand, but this time, I don't care if I'm rude, and I leave his extended hand hanging in the air. He shrugs and says smoothly, "Well played, Mr. Johnson," before turning and walking unevenly toward the door with the file tucked safely under one arm.

I scowl at his empty chair. I'm disgusted that this was all a political game to him, one that he viewed only in terms of calculated gains and losses. But this is not a game to me. It's my life. It's _her_ life. And I have to get to her. Not only before the deadly injection scheduled for Saturday morning, but also before the Bureau attack on Sunday. I have to get back to Chicago.

I rub my hand over my face, suddenly exhausted. I can't just ignore that looming problem, as much as I want to. It's the reason I came here in the first place. I lay my head down on my arms and think.

I know I can't guarantee a school for the Fringe. But—I can take _her—_if she'll go. Someone who defied the Bureau—even to death—and beyond. Maybe she will give them hope, or pause. Maybe that will be enough to make them stop, just long enough to listen.

Maybe she will be enough. She always has been. And I have never wanted anything more than I want to be with Tris, right now.


	31. Chapter 31

TRIS

It's late, and I want to sleep. But I can't. So I remember.

I remember when Tobias came for me in Erudite headquarters.

Because he would not be without me. Even if that meant never actually getting to see me or touch me, again. Even though he expected to die just for the privilege of being_ near_ me. He came.

I remember his terrified screams echoing down the long hallway. The way they ripped through me, tearing holes in me that are still healing. Holes that surgeons didn't see and serums didn't fix.

Because it was hopeless, but it wasn't. Every heart-wrenching cry that left his body bore me up, spoke to me that I was wanted, needed, treasured. And I did not want to die, anymore.

I remember his hands clawing and pounding at the door that separated us, desperate and determined. As if no man-made door could keep us apart. As if I could feel his love, again, through his agony.

Because he would do anything for me. He came.

I remember, and it is painful. I want sleep to come, now. Sleep would be merciful.


	32. Chapter 32

TOBIAS

It's late, but I don't want to sleep. My nerve endings feel like live wires all over my body, too sensitive. Over stimulated. I can't relax and I can't rest. But I don't want to.

I think of the first time I thought she was dead, of seeing her body, limp and unmoving, hanging in Peter's arms. Peter's arms, of all places. When _I_ should have been holding her, cradling her. I remember the way her legs looked and the way her head looked, the way it lolled there, like all the life and vitality had gone from it.

I remember the way I felt, like all the life had gone out of me, too.

And then Peter's words, echoing in my deaf, disbelieving ears. She's not dead.

I will never forget that, the way it feels to have lost everything, then gained it back. It changes you. Hope changes you. It's still changing me.


	33. Chapter 33

TOBIAS

I spend the night pacing. I pace up and down the street in front of the hotel. Then, when it's so dark that stepping outside the glow of the hotel lights means I can barely see my hand in front of my face, I pace through the atrium and the lounge. I pace until the new woman at the reception counter starts to make ugly faces at me every time I walk past.

So I go to the gym in the clothes I wore this morning, still damp from my previous exertions. I'm sure I reek from a mile away, but I don't care, and the few people there keep a wide berth. They would have done that anyway. I ravage my body until I should be exhausted, until the last employee knocks on the door to the sparring room and points to his watch, eyes pleading.

I return to my room and stand in the shower, letting the water run over me until it's ice cold and I'm forced to get out. Then I dress in my suit pants and button-down and pace, there, thinking and remembering. Replaying everything like its a live video feed streaming through my mind. She's alive, and I'm afraid to sleep, in case I should wake up and discover this was all a dream.

When the day has finally turned and I think it's safe to show my face in the atrium, I bound down the flights of stairs, like I've already two cups of that drink Evelyn used to make me. I pace in front of the Gift Shop until another tired-looking employee opens the door with a yawn, and I buy the first tee-shirt I find, stacked neatly on a shelf in the corner. Then I run it back up to my room and throw it on the bed, for later. The door doesn't even latch behind me, and I'm gone, again.

I'm ready to run straight through the hotel, when I see Johanna, eying her watch in front of the dining room's closed doors. At first, I'm perturbed that she's awake so early. I don't want anything to slow me down, even if it feels like I'm just moving in unending circles. Then I remember that she probably had an equally long day yesterday with an equally long one ahead, and I tell myself to be more considerate. Or at least, not moody and rude.

"Tobias!" she says with a smile. Gracious in all circumstances.

I force myself to look her in the eyes and not fidget with my hands, but I can't help shifting from one foot to the other while I talk. "Johanna. You're up early," I say.

She sighs. "Yes, there's a lot of people to see while there's still—," she trails off, looking at her watch, again. This is the first time she's looked weary to me. She rubs one of her eyes and says, "Well, maybe we can find something to eat in the lounge over there."

We each get something labeled as a "bagel," and I pick at mine until Johanna stands, stretches, and says, "I've got to get going." She looks at me and frowns, "I'm sorry this isn't going as planned, Tobias, but I do have more work to do."

I nod. I have work to do, too.

"Mind if I tag along?" I ask, trying to sound casual. "I'd like to see as much as I can while we're here. Not sure when I'll have another chance."

She nods, and I follow her without a word. The less she knows about my plans, the better off she is. I can protect her in that way. I can give her deniability, as the Senator would say.

She smiles and I walk her to the curb, where we catch the first waiting cab. Our ride to the Congressional Building is quiet. There aren't many people on the streets, yet, and the road is unusually clear of other vehicles. The buildings look the same as they did the day before, only grayer, because it's not as light out, yet. When we part ways on the street outside, she waves and says, "Wish me luck!"

I've had enough of luck, but I stand and watch her climb the steps into the building, then I circle around the block. I sit on the same stone bench where I waited for Crawford yesterday. It is cold and hard this morning. My pants feel uncomfortably thin and part of me wishes I'd grabbed my coat. My knees bounce from more than the chill, and I'm about ready to start walking laps, when I see him climb out of a cab in front of the building.

"Senator! Senator!" I call, jogging toward him.

"Damn it. Not a moment's peace," he says sourly. His eyes look dull and his face haggard. He runs a hand over his wave of hair and spits out, "I haven't even had my coffee, yet."

He proceeds into the building, and I follow him without invitation. I shadow Crawford through the security check and the labyrinth of halls after. He mutters most of the way, but doesn't speak directly to me. Nor does he look around him, at the many pictures and historical artifacts dotting the walls, as he walks. I suppose when you live with it every day, it loses its novelty.

When he pushes through the door of his office, Alex Jamison is already there. She keeps her face perfectly blank, though I don't think Crawford would notice if it wasn't. Now that I think about it, maybe she always looks that way. I'm sure she's not surprised by much, anymore, after working here for years.

He tosses his bag onto the sprawling desk and throws his body into the heavy, leather chair behind it. He covers his eyes with one of his hands and speaks without looking at either of us. "Alex, go to the Library of Congress and fetch the full schematics for the Roosevelt Building." He rubs his temples and adds, "Call ahead first. They'll have it ready for you." She glances at me but doesn't even raise an eyebrow.

Alex tucks the screen she was holding at-the-ready under her arm and opens the door to go. Then Crawford stops her, too loudly, and says, "No! Wait. Coffee first. Strong coffee." She looks at me, again, but says nothing as she lets herself out.

I press my lips into a hard line and take an un-offered chair in front of his desk.

"Try not to look so ungrateful Mr. Johnson," he says, though I haven't seen him open his eyes since he sat down. "Trust me, you _want_ me to have my coffee. Your plans are coming."

Alex returns and places a steaming mug of dark brown liquid on his desk, then immediately withdraws, again. So that's what it's called. Coffee. I fleetingly wish I had a cup, too. All my adrenaline can't completely hold off the slight drag that's beginning to pull on me after my sleepless night.

Crawford snatches up the cup without a word of thanks and brings it to his lips, taking small sips interspersed with pained expressions as the hot drink flows over the sensitive flesh of his tongue and throat. When he's more used to the temperature, he takes in deeper gulps, not looking at me until he's drained the last drop and set the empty cup beside him.

"Now. In the meantime. Questions?" he asks, his face set and his arms outspread, hands gripping the edges of the desk.

He may prefer to win, and often, at all costs, but he doesn't deviate from the rules of the game. That's how a man like him gets to the position he's in—and keeps it. Crawford wants to be just as sure as I do that there are no loopholes, here. He's agreed to give me Tris, and he's willing to give me all the information he can to leave no doubt that he's fulfilled his side of the bargain.

"How do I find her room?" I ask, leaning forward and pulling my notepad out of the bag I brought with me.

"The rooms are unmarked," he says simply, crossing his arms over his chest, though they actually rest on his stomach. "I'll have to show it to you on the layout of the building. Then you'll need a map—or a good memory."

"Why are they unmarked?" I ask, my brow furrowed as my pen hovers over the blank pad.

"Because there are special circumstances surrounding all the patients in this facility. Both medical and psychological considerations. The security measures protect the privacy of the patients—," he explains before I interrupt him.

"And protects the classified nature of their stay, as well?" I say, narrowing my eyes. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't dispute the fact. I nod and grit my teeth before exhaling heavily, trying to expel all the building anger and agitation so I can focus. "Tell me about those security measures."

"You can't enter the building, or any of the rooms, for that matter, without thumbprint identification. The prints of all staff and visitors with clearance are programmed into the computer network which supports the security system," he says as he straightens his tie and swivels around to look at himself in a mirror on the adjacent wall. I hate the satisfied expression on his face. "The deeper you get into the building, the more restricted the access."

My face must register my frustration, because he rolls his eyes before continuing, "So—there may be only three or four people in the entire facility with clearance to enter Ms. Prior's room. And, I'd bet, they'll all be in her room at the time of the experiment."

I chew the inside of my cheek, hard, and the skin feels rough and raw. "What else?" I ask, my voice strained. My notepad still blank.

"And there are armed guards placed throughout the facility. For safety purposes," he states with a smirk, swiveling his chair back and forth with his feet.

I throw the notepad in the direction of my bag and grunt loudly, throwing my hands up in exasperation. "It sounds like I'll need a team of people to get in there!"

"You might," Crawford agrees, his face noncommittal as he leans his elbows on the desk, eying his empty cup longingly.

I jump to my feet and pace the short distance from one wall to the next, running my hand over my head. "You could have told me that last night," I say angrily.

"I could have," he says, toying with the cup. "But I was a little—under the influence—toward the end there," he says with a sly, knowing smile, like he expects me to commiserate with him.

But I have no empathy for this sleazy, selfish man. It takes all of my self control just to clench my fists instead of using them. I have to physically turn away because the sight of him is so aggravating, and I feel actual release when the door swings open and Alex enters with a long cylinder in her hands. She opens the container and slides out a roll of papers, which she spreads out on the desk in front of Crawford before grabbing his cup and slipping out.

Crawford leans over the plans and adjusts his glasses. Then he stabs at the paper with his finger and says, "There. This one is her room. It's on the most secure hall in the facility, with close proximity to the lab," he says, satisfied, as I look over the black exterior and interior lines of the building to the point where his finger jabs the paper.

_There._ There she is. My eyes burn and I am aware of my pupils dilating and contracting, honing in on my target.

I mark the room with my pen. Then I pull the papers forcefully out from under his hands, which he slowly slides off the desk and clasps behind his head. I quickly roll the papers back into a cylinder and shove them into the tube Alex left leaning against the desk. I throw the strap of my bag over one shoulder and tuck the plans securely under my arm, turning on my heel without a backward glance.

As I stride through the door I hear the Senator call after me pointedly, "Have a good day, Mr. Johnson, since we won't be meeting, again!"

But I've already pushed him from my mind, filling the space with Tris and plans to get her out of that place—and the phone call I need to make to do that.


	34. Chapter 34

TOBIAS

I lean over the reception counter and see the same woman who helped me yesterday. I flash what I hope is a friendly smile and say, "Can you help me, again?" She eyes the fingers I didn't know I was drumming against the granite and I hastily pull my hand off the counter, waiting hopefully.

She sighs, bored, and touches her screen a few times before saying, "Go ahead."

I ask for the number to the central Police Department of Chicago. I need to talk to Zeke, but he's probably on duty, patrolling somewhere in the city, unlike Amar, who focuses on the Fringe. George is in charge of the training, but he also works with different segments of the force on a day-to-day basis, depending on the need, so I figure if I can reach him, he'll know how I can get a hold of Zeke.

The woman scribbles the number on a small piece of paper and hands it to me. I call back, "Thank you!" as I run through the atrium to the stairs with the plans under my arm and my bag slapping against my leg. Not as many people stare this morning. Perhaps the regulars are used to me, now.

When I reach my room I fumble with my key, then fling open the door with renewed energy. I toss the bag and the tube onto the bed and rip my shirt off, thankful I don't lose any buttons in the process. Then I pull on the shirt I bought earlier, not bothering to see how it looks, and yank the chair out from the desk, where I sit and smooth out the paper with shaky fingers. I dial the number and anxiously wait for someone to answer.

"Hello. Chicago Police Department. How may I help you?" says the amiable voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes, I need to talk George, please. Head of the Training Program," I say hurriedly, though I probably didn't have to add that last part.

"Just a minute, sir. I'll connect you," she says nicely, then I hear muffled silence. This is the part I hate. My knees vibrate so much that the chair creaks beneath me.

Finally, the familiar voice breaks through. "Hello?"

"George! Hey. It's Tob—er, Four. I need to talk to Zeke. It's urgent. Can you find him for me?" I ask, rushing through my request.

"Um, yah. I can do that. Just, uh—give me the number where you are, and I'll have him call you back as soon as possible," George says helpfully.

I list off the numbers printed on the back of the phone and hang up to wait, again. While I wait, I decide to review the plans of the Roosevelt Building until I know the layout forward and back. I pop the lid off the container and slide the papers from the tube, then I roll them out on the floor and kneel down next to them. I'm momentarily thankful for the carpeted surface as I obsessively pour over every detail and perfect the plan that's forming in my mind.

When the phone rings not ten minutes later, I'm certain I have the most direct route to Tris' room memorized. Now to get the help I need to overcome the obstacles that prevent me from getting there.

"Hello?" I say, again, almost before I lift the phone to my ear.

"What's up, bro?" Zeke asks, and the concern in his voice spans the miles.

I don't have time to ease into a long-winded explanation, so I jump right into the deep, my words falling out like rushing water. "Zeke, I need you to come to D.C., right now. And bring Christina. Tris is _alive_, Zeke. But not if I can't get to her by tomorrow morning."

"Whoa. _Whoa_. Hold up, Four. I don't understand. I thought you were there to deal with some business about the Fringe. Have you been drinking?! Its really early to be—," he says seriously before I cut him off.

"Yes. I mean, no, I'm not drinking, and yes, this is about the Fringe. The meeting was a disaster, and I couldn't get what we needed. But I can get _her_, which is more important than anything else. And, if I do that, I just might be able to get back to the Bureau in time to stop the attack, too. I _know_ she—we—can do it, somehow," I say excitedly, leaning forward and digging my elbows into the unforgiving desk.

"What attack?!" Zeke asks, shocked, latching onto the last thing I said.

My body feels over-heated. Like I am trying to connect too many strings of thought but I can't keep track of them all. I know if I could just lay everything out clearly, Zeke could see how all the lines converge. But that takes time I don't have.

"The rebels in the Fringe are going to attack the Bureau on Sunday," I say impatiently. He keeps missing the point, and I can't keep connecting the dots for him. Not right now. "I was trying to get them a school as a token of good faith, that there would be real progress, real change, there. I didn't get it, but I ended up with something better."

There's silence on the other end, and I don't know if Zeke is stunned by the news of another potential war or if he thinks I'm certifiably insane and is debating how to handle it. I pause, knowing it does sound unbelievable. I'm still not sure I can fully understand what I'm about to say out loud, and in a tragically brief account.

"One of the Senator's aides gave me a classified file about Tris being involved in an experiment after she was removed from the Bureau following the memory reset—because she _wasn't_ dead! The file was vague enough that I misread it and thought she had died, later, during the course of that experiment," I try to explain. "Still, I figured I could use the information to blackmail the Senator into approving the school, after all."

I cringe at the word "blackmail," but that _is_ what I was doing. I just didn't know I'd be so good at it.

"Four, I don't know. This all sounds cr—," Zeke begins.

"Crazy? I know. It _does_ sound crazy. But I met with him and he told me, straight out, that she's still alive. He told me where she is and how to get to her. And he told me they're going to experiment on her tomorrow—with the Death Serum. I'm sorry, Zeke. I just don't have time for more explanation than that. I'm not going to lose her, again, when I can save her. I'll do everything that's in my power, and I'm just asking you to help me. Because if you don't, I'm going anyway," I say emotionally, breathing heavily from the effort of pouring myself out. I lay my head on the desk and keep the phone to my ear, waiting for his response to break the silence.

"Okay," he finally says, and I can actually hear him swallow. "Okay. I believe you. But, Four, I don't know if I can get together enough money for a flight that fast. I can ask my mom, or Shauna, to help but—," he stops, frustrated.

"Don't waste your time. I've already checked. Our airport doesn't handle that kind of traffic anymore so the flights are sporadic. As of right now, there's not another flight coming or going until Sunday afternoon, when Johanna and I were originally scheduled to return," I say begrudgingly, because I had the woman at reception look into it for me.

"What was your plan in the first place?" Zeke asks, incredulous.

"We didn't expect to_ have_ to be back in person. Making good on our word would have been enough, for now. But, as I said already, that didn't happen. Now I've got to _be_ there and still get Tris in time," I say, suddenly overwhelmed by how quickly we are speeding toward the convergence of these events. I can only hope that what results is the perfect interconnecting of all the details and circumstances—and not a spectacular clash. But that's a lot to hope for.

"Well, I guess I could drive," he says, speaking into my distraction, "But that would take—Geez, how many ho—."

"Twelve to 13 hours with no stops and good road conditions," I interrupt tersely, drumming my fingers on the desk in agitation. I asked about that little detail, too.

"Wow, so I need to leave, like, right now," he says, his voice carrying with it the gravity of his realization.

I give Zeke the address to the hotel, which I find on some sleek, colorful pamphlets inside the desk featuring overly made-up couples with large teeth and larger smiles.

"Arlight, I'll have Peri in dispatch print up a map for me," he says hurriedly, as though he's already in motion. "Wait—," he pauses, "what do you need me to bring, other than Christina and her entertaining wit?"

I mentally review the plan I developed earlier before ticking off the necessary points over the telephone. I can't afford to forget anything. "I think we're going to need some type of controlled, limited-range explosive," I say, careful to be explicit. "Also, and this is really important Zeke, I want to do this without guns."

"I'm sorry. I must have heard you wrong. Are you kidding me?" he asks in disbelief. "If you need explosives to break her out of this place, I'm guessing it's well fortified. Probably armed guards, too, right?"

"Yes," I say, standing up and running a hand over my face. I can't deny it.

"Then we have to take weaponry, Four. It would be stupid not to!" he says, and I can hear the exasperation in his voice.

"Zeke, I'm not against doing what we need to do to get in and out successfully and safely," I hesitate, exhaling so deeply it's almost painful, "but I've killed a lot of people, and I'm tired. Someone somewhere has to make the choice to not resolve situations with violence unless there's no other option." I pause, again. "And I've decided there's another option, here."

"Well, please fill me in, because we can't go in there with nothing," Zeke says hotly.

"Tris told me about some devices that Cara made at Erudite. They were prototypes. Carried an electrical charge that could stun someone without leaving permanent damage. I was thinking you could see if she still has any. Or maybe even something better," I explain hopefully, leaning on the desk to support me.

"Okay, sure. Yah, I can do that. But if you want me to go all the way out to see Cara, then—," he says.

And I interrupt him. "Then you'll need to hurry," I finish, turning to stare at the schematics spread across the floor.

"Then I'll need to hurry," he repeats. "See you soon, Four." And the line goes dead.


	35. Chapter 35

TRIS

It's Friday afternoon. I know this not because of the calendar that I carefully avoid, but because Andrew told me.

I've already had two meals and exercised—though I don't know why they insist on continuing with it. Andrew is gone, now, and I am alone. Being alone is dangerous for me, because my mind wanders like a boat without oars drifting over a lake.

This time, my boat takes me to Candor headquarters. To the moment when I knelt in front of Eric, seething with anger and violence and pain, because I shot him in the foot. It's the moment when I watched him drop the Divergent boy with one bullet and no feeling. Then he moved on to me, cold and calculating, and enjoying it. And he held the gun to _my_ head.

I remember my strength and my defiance.

It is another painful memory because, now, I struggle to feel anything other than resignation. And that is hard, because it is not who I am, or who I choose to be—someone who gives up and surrenders. But some burdens are so weighty that no one can bear up under them without help. I need a protector. A rescuer.

I remember Tobias, with his arms surrounding me, shielding me with his body, firing off round, after round, after round. He was all around me. In the middle of the storm, I was safe.

Now I am drifting, drifting, drifting, back into the storm. And there is no one to protect me.


	36. Chapter 36

TOBIAS

Even after all the time I've spent sitting in the Dauntless control room or in Johanna's office, I'm still not used to it. Rafi said I am a man of action, and he's right. Inaction is stifling. But that is where I am.

I manufacture tasks for myself just so I'm not tempted to throw the clock against the wall. I review the layout of the Roosevelt Building until I could probably draw another set from memory. I know where all the security check-points are located and have multiple plans in mind for dealing with them.

I think of Tris. And I wonder if she's thinking of me, too, or if she thinks I've abandoned her, which frightens me more than having to watch her die in my fear landscape. Then, I wanted to help her, but couldn't. In my new mental scenario, I can help her, but don't—and she knows it. It is the worst betrayal.

It's possible, I realize, that she believes I don't know at all. And if that's true, she is suffering unimaginable despair. I am crushed just by the thought of it.

Finally, I make myself lie down on the bed and try to sleep. I'm probably too exhausted to dream, which is comforting. But even if I do, nothing in my dreams tonight could be worse than the reality of being unable to function when it counts tomorrow if I'm too tired to think clearly—and make an irreparable mistake. So I force myself to close my eyes and keep them closed.

When I open them again, I am disoriented. According to the clock, it's 9 p.m. If Zeke and Christina were able to leave by noon and make excellent time, I can optimistically expect to start looking for their arrival about 1 a.m., but not before. And that's just the best-case scenario. It's safer to assume they'll encounter a few roadblocks here and there. Maybe even literally. So I still have at least four hours to kill, and it feels like torture.

I need to keep my mind and body busy, so I drag out the shirt I wore for both workout sessions the day before. _At least its dry this time_, I think, as I shrug into it. The second wearing yesterday was both smelly and uncomfortable. This time I'm just treated to the residual sweet smell of sweat, and I can put up with that. So I head down to the gym for another intimate late-night date with the punching bag.

When I push through the door, I'm greeted by the same gym supervisor, and he frowns when he recognizes me. I guess he was hoping to call it an early night since there's only one or two other people here, but there's no chance for that now. I have a lot of time and energy to burn.

I attack the punching bags and try every combination of kicks and punches I can think of. Then I walk around the gym, to pass more time, and try out some of the strange machines. This keeps me occupied for a long time. I even try one that allows me to run in place on a conveyor belt. I like it at first, because I enjoy the surging power in my legs when I run, but I get bored and frustrated with it after a few miles. I'm going nowhere. And the way I already feel, it's not that much better than sitting still. Finally, I let myself go back to my room to clean up.

I've passed only one and a half hours.

I take a shower, because I've got the time, and think about how strange it is that a person could literally survive without ever leaving the hotel. It contains everything to meet all the basic needs—except variety. But maybe some people don't care about that. Then I remember our old faction compounds functioned almost the same way.

Before Tris transferred and became a Dauntless-initiate, I wanted to leave, because I detested what Dauntless had become, what Max and Eric made it, and the way I was being forced to fit into it. Not because I disliked what it was _supposed _to be, at its best. I was welcomed there and given a new life, and I was grateful. Still, I was ready to join Evelyn and become Factionless.

But then I saw her, and I stayed. Because she needed my protection, and she was worth it.

It's the same thing she needs from me, now. My protection. And I hate that I'm not already there. I sigh and try not to dwell on it, because it will only hinder me. So I put on my new shirt while glancing at the clock and decide I may as well eat. It won't hurt to replenish my energy after the sleep and another brutal workout. And it will chip away at the time.

I head back down the stairs, remembering the rock sculpture in the atrium of the Bureau. I caught Tris staring at it a lot, though she never told me why.

Originally, there was a large water tank suspended over a great slab of rock, which released a single drop of water, one at a time. Slowly, slowly chipping away at it. Slowly eroding away the minerals that made up its composition, carving a groove, a new path, into its surface. I didn't like it, because it was depressing. To me, it was more representative of hopelessness, than of hope. The rock was just too big and the water droplets too slow. I feel the same frustration, now, as every second that chips at the distance between us falls away too slowly.

I get to the dining room at five minutes to 11, when it closes. The hostess gives me a sour look but is not allowed to be outright impolite, so she says, "Right this way, sir," in a clipped tone. I'm shown to a small, two-person table, like the one Johanna and I typically use. I haven't seen her all evening, but that's probably for the best.

The waiter who arrives at my table shortly looks equally perturbed and hands me the menu with a stony glare, his mouth set in a firm line. I look around and realize I'm the only one here. I feel badly about it, but not badly enough to leave. I quickly place my order and then pick over my food when it arrives. The waiter hovers nearby, checking on me every few minutes in case I should need something—or be ready to leave. By the time my stay in this hotel is over, all the employees will rejoice over my departure.

When I finally push back from the table, I glance at my watch and see that it's only 11:45. I'm not sure what else to do. I know from the previous night that there's no use in walking the streets. It's just too dark. So I go to the lounge, where the food counter is closed but the chairs are open and free. I unfold my body in a large, soft chair, sinking into it and stretching my legs out in front of me. I lean my head against the back of it and close my eyes, willing Zeke to get here, soon.

My eyes fly open and I panic. I hadn't planned to nod off, not tonight. Not—I look at my watch—_today_. It's 2 a.m. _Where's Zeke!? _

I run to one of the many windows at the front of the hotel and press my face and hands to the glass, straining intensely to see anything beyond the glow emanating from the lights inside or out.

I see nothing.

I pace up and down the atrium, feeling like my head and my chest will explode, the ache is so great and immense. I pace, and pace, and pace, and my watch passes the 3 o'clock mark. I'd like to pull my hair out, but it's not long enough.

I pace, and then I go to the window. And I pace some more. This is excruciating. It is eating away at me from the inside. I feel like I did when I sat, helpless, in the room at Erudite, waiting for her to die. I feel it all over again. I feel deranged. If it would help to scream, I would. But I know from experience, it doesn't.

It's 4 a.m. and I give up pacing. I sit on the floor in the lounge with my arms slung over my knees and rest my head upon them, facing the entrance. Waves of nausea roll over me, and I feel like throwing up. All my senses are heightened and my nerves feel exposed. I stay like this, with my eyes closed and my head down, just to make it bearable.

Then I hear a loud bang at the door, jolting through me. I hear it, again, and my head snaps up. It's Zeke, with his arms full, banging on the door at the entrance to the hotel. I jump to my feet and run like a man who runs for his life. Except I am running into the fire, not away from it. And I can't wait.


	37. Chapter 37

TOBIAS

I fling the door open and hold it as Zeke huffs past, waving my hand at the suddenly anxious woman behind the reception counter to indicate that he's with me.

"Zeke! Where've you been?" I ask, flustered, torn between anger and relief. "Do you know what ti—?"

"Dude, don't even start with me. You've seen that truck. First, we had a flat tire, which took a ridiculous amount of time to fix. Then there were all the roads that weren't passable for one reason or another, and we had to find another way. What the heck does the government spend their money on?!" he interrupts with an impassioned tirade, which he must have been saving for awhile.

He's standing there staring at me, tired, red eyes wide, with large black bags under both arms, and the only thing I can think to do is throw my arm around him.

"It's good to see you, Zeke!" I say, shaking my head and exhaling, all the anger instantly dissipating. "I just hope you made notes on the map so we don't get lost on the way back. Sounds like we'll need it," I tease with a grin.

"Yah, whatever. Just hold the door for Christina. She's bringing up the rear," Zeke says, dropping the bags on the floor and stomping his feet to stretch out his stiffened legs.

I reach for the door and swing it open just in time for Christina to walk through. She doesn't even say hello, she just drops her bag at my feet, squirming, and says, "Point me to the bathroom. Seriously. Right now. Zeke wouldn't stop for anything there at the end!"

I point to a door next to the reception counter, and Christina dashes off without another word. I mouth a "Thank you" to Zeke, who waves it away, and am just about to release the door when Caleb walks in. I'm momentarily stunned into silence and Zeke diverts his eyes.

I raise my eyebrows at him and point at Caleb, incredulous. "Come on, Zeke, I know you can take _him. _How'd he get in the truck?"

Caleb frowns and shifts from one foot to the other. He's about to open his mouth when Zeke shoots him a look that says "Not now!" So Caleb shuts his mouth and stares at the floor, arms crossed over his chest.

I walk over to Zeke and say, "What were you thinking? I can't take any risks, here. And I don't want him getting in the way or slowing us down."

Christina jogs back over to us and grabs her bag. "What'd I miss?" she asks cheerfully. Then she takes a look around our little circle and registers Zeke's down-turned eyes, my frustrated stance, and Caleb's stand-offish expression. She rolls her eyes.

I glance around the atrium, pick up one of Zeke's bags, and nod at them to follow me to the elevator, which I figure they'll appreciate using. We don't speak again until we're all safely inside and the doors have closed behind us.

"Listen, Four," Zeke starts off, huffing, "he was there when I went to see Cara—and by the way, she definitely had the goods—but he insisted on coming along. And we really could use the extra manpower, anyway—."

I look sideways at him, raise my eyebrows, again, and say sarcastically, "That's a loose definition of the word 'manpower.'"

"I can operate the explosive devices," Caleb blurts out from behind us, unable to keep quiet any longer. I turn around to look at him.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks directly at me, his hair flopped over his forehead and his mouth set in a stubborn line. "If you remember, Matthew taught me how to do it. I memorized every detail, and I'll have no trouble quickly assembling the materials Zeke was able to get. I know what I'm doing, and I can help. You _need_ my help."

I impatiently shift the strap of the bag from one shoulder to the other and am about to contradict him when he keeps going. "Besides, she's my sister. I owe it to her to be here. It was my fault that she—," he chokes up pitifully, and I feel remorse for the way I've treated him begin to creep in, softening my coarse edges.

I put a hand on his shoulder and say firmly, "Caleb, it wasn't your fault. She _chose_ to take your place, because she wanted to. Because she loved you and—," I pause and swallow, looking down at my feet, "and she forgave you. So it's time to forgive yourself. You can come." I stare at him with steady eyes long enough to see the defiance ebb and then look away, letting my hand drop awkwardly.

"Well good," Christina says from behind us. "Because I was afraid I was here with a bunch of little girls who didn't know whether to fight or hug instead of with some Dauntless about to get a job done!"

"I'm not Dauntless," Caleb retorts, crossing his arms, again.

"Technically, none of us are," Zeke mutters. "But we'll get you an honorary tattoo just for fun when this is over," he says to Caleb with a smirk.

The elevator stops on the third floor, and we all pile out. Christina and Caleb start down the hall, and I call out, "Room 317," and toss the key at her.

Zeke turns to look at me and nudges me in the arm. "Yah, so he definitely promised to let me blow up some stuff when we get home. Couldn't turn that down. Wouldn't have let him come otherwise," he grins. I shove Zeke down the hall and can't help laughing.

When we get into the room, everyone starts digging through their respective bags, and I lay the plans out on the bed. Zeke lays four hand-held devices on the desk, and Caleb pulls various materials and wires from his bag, immediately pouring all his concentration into their assembly. Christina unloads what I assume to be bullet-proof vests from her bag, and I let out a pleased sigh. That wasn't something I'd thought to ask for, because we never had access to that kind of equipment before, but I'm glad we do, now.

Zeke walks over to the bed and stands next to me, examining the plans. He lets out a low whistle. "So, you know which way we're going to go in?"

I nod and trace the route with my finger.

"And I guess you've got that memorized so the rest of us don't have to shove more information into our exhausted and overloaded brains?" he asks hopefully, leaning forward and putting his hands on the bed.

I nod, again, and smile. I chew the inside of my cheek and run my eyes over the layout. I jab at the far corner with my finger. "This—this is her room," I say. "And this is where we'll have to use the explosive devices. There are thumbprint identification pads outside every secure door, but her wing is the most restricted. Probably everyone with access is going to be in that room already, so we won't be able to force someone to open it for us," I say, my arms crossed over my chest.

"We should place the explosives on the door's frame and not the security device, though," Caleb says, speaking up. "If we try to deactivate the security system, itself, everything will probably go into lock down," he says thoughtfully. "We're better off bypassing that altogether and just taking out the door. I'll make sure the explosion's contained."

I look over at him and nod, impressed. He smiles to himself and continues to work hastily but efficiently, fingers flying as he connects wires and sensors and explosive materials.

"Okay, so that's taken care of," I say, looking intently at the plans before pointing to another spot on the layout for Zeke. "Here. There's an internal security check-point before you enter her wing. I don't want to use explosives there because, as Caleb said, that would probably just shut the whole place down. But, I'm thinking we can gain access another way." I let my eyes drift to the devices on the desk and Zeke brings one over for closer inspection.

"This is really awesome, Four," he starts off, unable to contain himself as he turns it over in his hands. "This switch, here, operates almost like the safety on a gun. If it's off when you push this button," and he shows me a button on top of the device," electrical current runs through the barbs at the end, here, and you use it at close range. However—," he pauses, his excitement rising, "if you need something more long-range, flip the switch, and when you press the button it will shoot the electrified barbs at your target. Then it automatically reloads with an internal spring. Amazing," he says, shaking his head.

I nod, satisfied. "Great, well, there's one for each of us, so we should be well set. I don't expect these guards to have training that would prepare them for something like this. To them, this is probably just a relatively low-key security job, and we'll be taking them completely by surprise."

I exhale, and with it, all of my pent up tension. Before, I felt suffocated. Now, I can finally breathe, and I feel in control for the first time in hours. _I _am trained for this, and the confidence that comes with that knowledge makes me bold, and ready.

I pull on one of the bullet-proof vests Christina laid out and adjust the straps so that it's snug. "Well, as soon as you're ready, Caleb, we should get going. I don't want to take any chances and cut this too close. The experiment's supposed to take place this morning, and I don't know anything more specific than that."

Christina nods and straps on one of the vests, also, her face set and her eyes focused. Zeke does the same, then tosses the last one in Caleb's direction. As he's tightening his straps he looks up and says, "Hey, Four, can we have a minute? Outside?"

I shrug and follow him through the door out into the hall. "What's up Zeke? We don't have any time to waste, here. I—."

"I know that. Just hear me out for a second," he says seriously, reaching into the jacket he just pulled on over his vest. He removes a gun and holds it out for me, letting his hand hang in the air.

I lift my hands up and back away a step. "Zeke, I told you. No. This goes against what I'm trying to do, now. To resolve situations peacefully."

"That's just crap, Four," he says heatedly. "Listen. I believe in resolving things peacefully, too. Whenever possible. I'm a police officer, for God's sake. I prefer it! But there are times—." He sees me shake my head. "There _are_ times when you have to take action for the_ right_ reasons. Like now."

He reaches over, puts it into my reluctant hand, and says, "You don't have to use it. But you need to be prepared. That's what _any_ good officer, leader, or politician does. They prepare themselves to do their job well. So remember, this gun is not the problem. It's just a thing. The problem, is with the people who use it for the wrong reasons and in the wrong way. Got it?"

I nod and stare at the gun in my hand before tucking it into the back of my pants. "Got it," I say quietly.

"Good. Then what are we waiting for? Let's go get her," Zeke says, clapping me on the back.


	38. Chapter 38

TRIS

I'm awakened by a loud click, and I'm confused. I roll my head on my pillow and see bright numbers on the clock glowing 5:00 a.m. in the darkness. A switch flips and I'm temporarily blinded as everything goes painfully orange and pink, and I squeeze my eyes shut, hard, to block out the unexpected blaze. I blink rapidly, letting in gradually increasing increments of light until my eyes are able to adjust.

Andrew is standing by my bedside with an armful of cottony linens and towels. But I don't understand why he is here. Usually I wake up on my own long before Andrew comes. _It's too early_, I think, shaking my head, still groggy with sleep, as if the action will cause my brain to reset and properly order the events of the day.

"What are you doing, here?" I ask Andrew slowly, squinting my eyes at him.

"Matthew wants to get an early start on things. So I'm here to get you prepped for the experiment," he answers simply and straightforwardly, setting the pile on the counter and producing the clippers to remove my restraints.

_The experiment_. So it's Saturday, already. I knew it was coming, it just came faster, and earlier, than I expected it to.

"Prepped how?" I ask, sitting up and gently rubbing the raw skin at my wrists with one free hand, and then the other.

"You've got to have a shower, to start with. Any dirt or oil on your skin—residue of any kind—could interfere with the sensors that will transmit the data to the computers. You have to be perfectly clean," Andrew says, helping me out the end of the bed.

When my bare feet hit the cold floor, he lets go of my arm. He knows I can walk on my own, now, and I know better than to try anything. He grabs the pile of linens back off the counter and silently accompanies me around the bed to the bathroom, where he holds the door with one hand so I can pass through.

"Can I be entrusted to clean myself or do you have to do it to make sure it's done right?" I ask petulantly, glaring at him from where I stand next to the shower, unwilling to proceed until I have an answer.

"You can do it," he says, looking down at the floor. "I'll stand over here by the door. You let me know when you're done."

I nod and my lower lip trembles.

I haven't had a shower since before Beth stopped coming. She used to help me and, while it was still embarrassing, every single time, I eventually got a little used to her being there. She was nice about it and only helped when I really needed it.

Andrew angles his body away from me so that he's looking out the door rather than at me, and I hastily pull the thin white gown over my head and slip into the shower. It takes a minute for me to adjust the water temperature, and then I step under the full force of it's flow, enjoying the way it feels as it moves over me. I use the soap that's already in the shower and linger until the water starts to turn cool. Even then, I stay. I don't know how long it will be until they make me lie back down in the bed—or whether I'll ever get out of it, again.

Finally, I shut the water off and hear Andrew walk across the bathroom, stopping right outside the shower. He shoves his hand through the curtain, holding out the soft white towel he carried into the room. I run it over my skin, absorbing every last water droplet until I am as soft and dry as the towel used to be.

I toss it through the opening between the curtain and the wall, and Andrew's hand appears, again. This time with a new white gown. I lower it over my head and slide my arms through the holes. It smells fresh and reminds me of flowers my mother used to like. I almost hate that I notice things like that, that all my senses are still so alive and aware. Part of me doesn't want to feel anything. And part of me grasps desperately after it all.

When I'm done and there is no excuse to remain any longer, I come out of the shower and follow him back into the main part of the room. I stand in the corner, watching him busy himself, grateful that he doesn't make me sit or lie down, yet.

"What are you doing, now?" I ask, fidgeting with the hem of the gown.

"Changing the bed-sheets. We're not taking chances with _any_ dirt, dust, or skin cell particles compromising the sensors' conductivity," he says, matter-of-fact, as he strips the old linens off the mattress.

It's not that I can't see what he's doing, or that I even really care why he does it, it's that I suddenly feel compelled to say—something. Andrew and I never talked much, but somehow, the impending possibility—likelihood—of my death loosens my tongue. Like anxiety is bubbling up from the pit of my stomach and spilling out of me. My hands shake, and I concentrate on making them stop. But it doesn't work, so I let them shake.

He throws the old sheets in a pile by the door, lays the bed down flat, and remakes it. When he's satisfied, he tucks the dirty linens under his arm, turns to me with a small smile, and says, "Matthew will be in shortly to start setting up."

"Wait!" I say, coming around the bed and wringing my hands, unable to hide my increasing agitation. "Why is Matthew here? I mean, why is it so—so soon?"

"Because Matthew expected it would take us a little while to get everything ready and, more importantly, he doesn't know how long it will take to—," he pauses and, I think, looks at me sympathetically, "how long it will take to collect the data. And after that, how long it will take to process it."

_He doesn't know how long it will take to collect the data_. In other words, how long it will take me to die or not die. I breathe, in and out. In and out.

I look at Andrew, again, and ask urgently, "But _how_ is he here, already?"

Matthew never arrived so early on any of his previous visits, and I know he works back in Chicago during the week. I just can't seem process it all, but I need to. For some reason, being able to comprehend even the most minute details feels essential. It is the small things that I cling to.

"The funding for the project included the use of a private plane, when needed. That's how he got here so quickly when you first woke up," he says, looking at me uncertainly, as if trying to determine if it's safe to step out of the room without restraining me, again.

But I don't want to be restrained, yet. I need to be free, for as long as possible. So I try not to look as crazed as I feel and just nod at him to communicate some level of acceptance.

He leaves the room, and I begin to pace the short distance between the walls. It feels like they are compressing me, like the room is shrinking. I'm short of breath and my body feels both heavy and light, and I wonder if this is how Tobias felt when he was trapped in his fear landscape box. I hold my hands to my temples, willing myself to be calm and controlled. But my mind is full of everything and nothing. How can I control that? How can I even comprehend it?

I am startled by the click at the door, and I actually jump when Matthew enters the room, pushing a large cart that holds various monitors and machines. He carefully maneuvers it into place by the bed and begins to untangle and organize the mass of wires. It looks very like the machines Jeanine used to evaluate my brain functions and test her serums in Erudite headquarters.

I involuntarily back into the wall behind me and watch, motionless. I am so tired of being everyone's test subject.

Matthew glances up from his work and notices my tense stance, how I'm pressed into the wall. "Tris," he sighs, as if he's addressing an irrational, childish fear, "I wish you wouldn't be so upset about this. It's all going to be fine." And he smiles at me.

I stare back at him, disbelieving. _He_ is the delusional one, and he doesn't realize it.

I shake my head and keep shaking it until the door clicks, yet again. Andrew walks back into the room, followed by Beth and Terry, the guard. It's getting close, now, and I will not be able to resist all of them. Andrew comes over to me, takes me gently by the elbow, and says, "It's time to lie down on the bed, now."

My eyes widen and my breathing becomes shallow, but I go where he leads me and climb back into the bed, positioning myself on my back. I close my eyes and try to shut down my senses. I ignore Beth checking my heart rate and recede deep into the dark, where it is safer. I ignore Andrew and Terry tightly fastening my wrists and ankles back to the bed rails. I am not afraid of the dark, like a child. And I was never afraid to die. I was ready, once, and willing.

But not like this.

I ignore Matthew carefully and precisely attaching sticky electrodes over the surface of my body. I am not here. I am in a safe place. In the dark. Tobias is there.

We are in the Dauntless compound, huddled together on the rocks above the Chasm. It is dark and damp and the wild waters are rushing beneath us. One mistake and they would envelope me forever. My adrenaline is pumping, but not because I am afraid. It is because he is looking at me—wanting me—the way I have wanted him. He kisses me, and it feels like I am finally alive. Alive in the place where death takes you. Safe in the place that is not.

Because he is there.

"I have a few more electrodes to place on her head—I have to get those just right—and I'll run a few baseline tests through the machines to make sure they're picking up all of her brain functions and relevant systems," Matthew calls into the Chasm, "and then we'll get started."


	39. Chapter 39

TOBIAS

We crouch in the cover of a thick hedgerow around the corner of the Roosevelt Building. It's 5:34 a.m. and still dark. Every muscle in my body is poised and tense, and my breath comes in deep breaths through cracked lips. Two rings of yellow extend from the lights on either side of the heavy door, and it illuminates the security pad on the left exterior wall.

"What now?" Zeke whispers into the cool, quiet morning. "Explosives?"

"No," I say regretfully as I watch the door intensely, dew from the wet grass soaking into the knees of my pants. "We can't afford to use them, yet. It would lock the place down and alert them to our presence too soon. We need to maintain the element of surprise as long as possible—and save the munitions for when they're absolutely necessary."

"What's the plan, then?" Christina says from my left, her breath coming in soft clouds through the cool air.

"I'm hoping we can get in with one of the employees arriving for the day," I say with a grimace, knowing as I say it how flimsy it sounds, hinging everything upon something so out of our control.

"And what if no one comes?" Christina says, peering through the dense leaves.

I can always count on her to state the obvious, so I answer in kind, looking at my watch, "Then we'll _have_ to blow it up."

Ten minutes tick away, and as each one passes, we get more restless. I can taste warm blood in my mouth and know I have chewed through my cheek, again. I can see from the way Christina and Zeke keep looking at each other that they wonder why I'm holding out. My entire body feels wound up into a tight coil, and I'm ready to explode, but I don't want to throw away our chances of success by blowing our cover too early. I'm playing a dangerous waiting game, and I know it. I just hope it doesn't backfire.

I'm about to give the signal to Caleb to prep the explosives when a lone figure dressed in head-to-toe dark blue walks across the parking lot. She has a container in one hand and plays with a small device in the other, distracted. I meet the eyes of each member of our team and hold up one fist so that everyone will go on my mark. When the woman is just a few feet from the door, I throw my hand out in a quick forward motion.

We tear through the brush and the only sound is our breaths coming fast and heavy and the flurry of our pounding feet on the pavement. I reach the woman in mere seconds and throw my arm around her chest from behind. The force of my momentum propels us toward the wall and, before she can scream, I bury Cara's electrified stunner into her side and press the button. Her body seizes and she drops her container, which splatters dark, steaming liquid all over the ground. I open her hand and push her thumb into the security pad. It glows green.

Christina grabs the door handle and I nod, adrenaline coursing through me as I say, "To the right side of the counter. Left after we're around the wall."

Her eyes are bright, and she yanks the door open. I run through, flipping the switch on my stunner as I clear the entrance. I shoot barbs into the stunned guard still lounging against the counter, and his body goes stiff and jerks as he collapses heavily to the floor. Christina and Zeke are close on my heels and take out the two wide-eyed women behind the counter. They seize up and then slump forward, their bodies still trembling.

I run around the counter and the partition behind it into a long hall stretching to my left and right. There is a guard walking toward me on the right, hand on his hip, and I send electrified barbs directly into his chest. His eyes bulge and his body falls as tremors roll through him. I veer left, Christina and Zeke nearly at my shoulders, with Caleb bringing up the rear, carefully clutching the bag of explosive devices.

We turn down another hall to our immediate right, which I know dead-ends and tees to the left and right, from there. I run headlong toward the wall and yell, "To the left Christina. Zeke, Caleb, follow me right."

Christina turns left, and I'm already well down the other way when I hear the loud sound of dead weight slapping the floor. I continue running at full-speed toward the opening at the end of the hall, Zeke and Caleb close behind. We're approaching the major security check-point that bars our access to Tris' wing of the building, and I know it will be more heavily guarded than any area to this point.

I burst out into a small holding area surrounded by offices and see a security desk against the far wall. There are three guards, and they've heard us coming. One is standing behind the desk with his gun already drawn, the second is on his way around the desk, hand on his hip, and the third is still seated, hand reaching for the phone.

"Get down!" I yell forcefully to Caleb and Zeke.

We crouch just as the first guard sends a round into the wall behind us. Zeke gets off a round of barbs which imbed in his abdomen. He seizes and drops the gun to the floor, collapsing and smacking his head on the desk as he falls. I throw my body over the desk and grab the guard nearest the phone. I wrap one arm around his neck and yank the phone cord out of the wall with the other. Then I drag him over the desk, flip the switch on my stunner, and hold it into his soft belly.

I hear another heavy thud and look up just in time to see Caleb, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, standing over the third guard. His eyes meet mine as he backs away, shocked, and I nod to him. Christina runs into the room, chest heaving from her exertion, and quickly surveys the room with her eyes.

"Zeke, Christina, disable their weapons," I shout hurriedly, throwing out orders as I haul the guard in my arms toward the locked door and slam him into the wall. I slap his hand against the security pad and press his thumb into it. The pad glows green, and I fling the door open.

I barrel down the long hallway in front of us, throwing us toward the guard who's pulling his gun from his holster. Zeke takes him out from my right side, and he's just falling to the floor in a trembling heap when we turn left and pass the laboratory. I know it's close now. My chest feels like it might burst, and my legs are screaming. But it's close. She's _so_ close.

We stream past the lab encased in glass, and I don't even turn to look at all the stunned faces floating atop matching white coats. I'm not worried about them. One more turn. Just one more turn.

I fly into the wall in front of me and hear a shot ring out, followed by a dull groan. I look up, horrified.

Zeke's taken a bullet to his vest and leans against the wall, holding his side in pain, eyes pinched shut. Another round shoots past us and burrows into the wall just as Christina ducks around the corner and sends an electrified barb deep the guard's shoulder. He slumps, shaking, and slides down the wall until his body smacks against the floor.

Zeke signals that he's alright, and I slap him on the shoulder, continuing to run purposefully down the hall, counting the doors from the layout imprinted in my mind. One. Two. Three.

"This is it!" I call excitedly, pressing my hand to the right one. "The third door. This is Tris' room. Caleb?!"

I back up as Caleb pushes through, his face set with concentration. He kneels to the ground in front of the door, unzips the bag, and begins to carefully but quickly remove the explosive devices. Zeke, Christina and I form a perimeter around him, encircling and protecting him while he works. He spaces the explosives along the door-frame and, when he's satisfied with the positioning, turns to me with bright, intense eyes and says, "Ready?"

I nod and we all duck around the corner.


	40. Chapter 40

TRIS

"We're almost ready," Matthew says, an edge of anticipation in his voice.

My eyes snap open—I can't help it—and I see him pull a case from beneath the cart. It must hold the syringe. The syringe that will inject Death Serum directly into my veins so my heart can pump it obediently through my body.

Hot emotion overwhelms me, burning up the cooling apathy that weighed me down and dragged me into the dark places. Tobias was there, and I didn't want to leave him but—.

My mind and body strain against what will happen. Tobias _is_ there. _Out there_. Somewhere I can still return to. _And I don't want to leave him_.

I will myself to fight. I am not someone who gives up. I am not someone who surrenders. I will not.

My heart beats so loudly I think everyone in the room can hear it. It's going to burst somewhere between my ears.

_Tobias, I don't want to leave you, again_.


	41. Chapter 41

TOBIAS

There are a series of sharp, coordinated explosions and smoke billows into the hallway. Almost immediately, water pours from the ceiling and runs over our faces as we approach the busted metal door. I have to blink rapidly to see what's in front of me.

The door is no longer attached at the hinges and appears merely propped in place, held upright by its weight alone. I grab the door by the handle, and it takes all my strength to wrench the door open and heave it to the side without slipping in the water that streams around us. Zeke rushes over and together we quickly lean it against the wall.

I stand up and peer into the room for the first time, looking directly into the eyes of a stunned guard hunkered against the opposite wall—and pointing his gun right at me.

Suddenly, the air is knocked out of me. Like someone kicked me in the chest, hard. I stumble backwards and smack into the wall behind me, trying to catch my breath and also ignore the deep, bruising pain centered there. The guard's eyes widen when I don't go down, and I see that he's prepared to squeeze the trigger, again. So I disregard the ache in my chest and the flood in my face, and I dive toward him, driving my shoulder into his stomach. He fires another round over my shoulder. I can only hope Zeke, Christina, and Caleb aren't in the way.

I pull out my stunner and press the button, ready to dig it into the guard's side, but it sparks in my hand. The water must have caused it to short circuit. I fling it to the ground, thankful that I didn't have it on when I was standing under the deluge in the hallway.

I knock the gun from the guard's hand, and it clatters across the floor. Then he lands a punch to my stomach, and I momentarily lose my breath, again. So I grab the gun tucked in the back of my pants and bring it around, smashing it into his temple. He immediately goes limp and his eyes roll back in his head as he slumps to the floor.

I stand to my feet and tuck the gun back into my waistband, breathing heavily, just as Zeke and Christina rush through the door, drenched from head to foot. Christina holds her arm, her sleeve stained wet with water and with blood. I'm about to quickly ask if she's okay when I hear two voices shout my name. One voice, the one I have been waiting two and half endless years to hear, again. The other voice, a familiar one that I never expected.

My eyes shoot to _Matthew_ standing next to a bed and a number of large machines with a syringe in his hand, frozen. I frantically follow the wires from the machines to the prostrate figure on the bed. I see her pale, thin face, overwhelmed with an intense mixture of shock, relief, and emotional exhaustion. A line of tears runs down the side of her temple, and I move toward her, finally, my voice catching in my throat as I try to say her name.

Matthew starts to back up involuntarily as I approach the bed. I punch him square in the face, causing him to go sprawling and drop the syringe on the floor. Christina snatches it up and puts it in the empty case lying on the machine cart. Matthew scoots backwards across the floor until his back hits the wall. He stays there with his knees pulled up to his chest and his hands pressed to his nose, bleeding over the front of his crisp white lab coat. A startled-looking man and woman huddle in the corner, and I can tell from their faces they won't challenge me, so I turn all my focus to Tris.

I lean over the bed and stroke her hair away from her face, kissing all the salty wet tears as I whisper, "Oh, Tris, Tris. I'm here. Don't worry. I'm here."

I run shaking hands over her forehead, removing the sensors as I go. One after another, after another, leaving red welts behind. I move my hands over her chest, arms, and legs. I force myself to remain gentle, though my agitation increases with each sensor as I see what they've done to her. I caress her wrists and her ankles where the restraints have dug into her skin, and I call out in agony, "Zeke, help me with these!"

He runs over, and we try in vain to pull them free. But Tris just shakes her head and nods in the direction of the drawers across the room. "Clippers. Over there," she says tiredly.

Christina rushes to the drawers and starts digging through them. I notice Caleb standing quietly in the background, hesitant to come forward. Our eyes meet and I'm about to call him, when Christina finds the pair of clippers and hurries over, handing them to me. I turn all my attention back to Tris, Caleb temporarily forgotten. I work my way hastily around the bed, setting her free.

When I cut through the last wrist restraint, she throws her arms around my neck, clinging to me desperately. She buries her head in my chest and says over and over, "You came, you came! I didn't want to leave you, Tobias—and you came!"

I slide my arms under knees and around her back, trying not to think about how light and frail she feels. I'm about to lift her from the bed when Matthew yells out, "No! Wait!"

I freeze and look over at him. He has picked up the unconscious guard's gun from off the floor and is pointing it at me. His hand shakes, and he sniffles at the slowing trail of blood running over his mouth and chin. I slowly lower Tris back down to the bed and move to stand in front of her, blocking her from his line of sight. She won't let go of me, though. She twists her hands into my shirt, leaning her forehead against my back.

"Wait," he says, again, his eyes pleading, never moving the gun away from my chest.

I wonder fleetingly why Zeke or Christina don't take him down, but then I realize their stunners probably shorted out, too.

"Think about all the good we can do. What we can accomplish! The progress that can be made if we go through with this experiment," Matthew says, his eyes too wild. "She resisted it in the Weapon's Lab! She beat the serum. We _must_ learn how she did it!"

"No, Matthew," I say firmly, my voice low. I reach my arms around my back to cradle Tris against me. "Sometimes the cost is too high. When are you all going to learn that?"

"But she exposed herself to the Death Serum before!" he objects, waving the gun as he gestures excitedly with his hands.

"There is a difference between willingly giving what no one has asked you to give, and taking what you have no right to take," I spit at him angrily. I stare him down, my eyes hard. If he wants her, he'll have to go through me. And he knows it.

He trains the gun back on my chest, and I see a new measure of resolve come into his eyes.

Then a shot goes off—.

Tris has pulled the gun from the back of my pants and leans around from behind me. "That was a warning shot, Matthew. Don't make me fire another one. You know I won't miss," she says, her voice cold and steely. "Don't be like David. Don't do this. Think about who you are and whether it's _really_ worth it. If you think it is—by all means, try me."

He looks from me to Tris and around the room. Then he runs a hand over his face, slowly lowering the gun to his side. He tosses it onto the bed and slumps into the chair against the wall, holding his head in his hands.

I turn around and carefully take the gun from Tris, tucking it back into my pants. Then I scoop her into my arms, again, holding her so close I can feel the heat of her body against me and smell the floral scent of her hair and her white gown.

"You're going to let us leave, now," I say calmly, giving him a direct order as I walk to the door and wait.

Matthew nods, and I see resignation wash over his face. He precedes us out of the room and down the hall, waving away disoriented guards as he goes.

"He's really not going to stop us?" Tris asks, her voice cracking as she nestles into me.

"No. He's not," I say confidently, striding into the hall. My heart breaks at the desperation and disbelief that lingers in her words.

She looks up as we pass our friends and calls out happily in surprise, "Zeke! Christina—Caleb!? You came, too!"

He comes forward and walks besides us while we move down the hall and turn the corner. Then he lays a hand on her arm and says, "Um, Tris, I'm so sor—."

"Stop, Caleb," she interrupts him, shaking her head. "You don't need to say it. I already forgave you."

"I know," he insists, his face earnest as he tries to stay in step with me. "But I _do_ need to say it. I'm sorry for everything. And I'm sorry you had to forgive me before I was ready or willing to ask for it. I didn't deserve that."

Tris shakes her head and simply says, "Well—I love you," with a small smile. Caleb flashes her a crooked smile in return.

We all walk in silence past the laboratory. Matthew must have turned off the water system, because it's no longer raining from above. My feet slap the standing water loudly as I walk. It is the only sound that echoes through the halls—other than intermittent groans.

When we reach the security check-point, Matthew is waiting for us with his eyes on the floor and his hands in his pockets. He presses his thumb into the security pad, and Zeke swings the door open, holding it for Matthew to lead the way. Matthew walks with us to the entrance of the building, and everyone we pass—who's regained consciousness—just watches, stunned. Then I carry Tris into the parking lot and don't look back.

She leans into me and says, "I can walk, you know. I_ am_ strong enough."

"But you don't have to," I say, gripping her all the more tightly as we quietly walk to the truck through the dawning light.

I appreciate that Christina, Zeke, and Caleb are giving Tris some space, some peace. Some room to adjust and time to think. I am thankful they care about her enough—about me enough—not to overwhelm her. There will be plenty of time, now. And I don't care how slowly the minutes pass.

I stop at the truck and lean against it, finally taking a moment to relish being near her, again. I pull her to me and kiss her with all the longing that has built up within me since I last held her, last kissed her. My mouth opens and hers responds. I taste her and feel her breath. She is the sweetest thing I have ever tasted.

Christina chuckles as she opens the truck door and says, like only a smart-mouth can, "Get a room!"

Zeke and Caleb laugh and climb into the truck. And I smile, kissing her, again, and again, and again. I don't even pull my lips away as I say, "Oh, I plan to."


	42. Chapter 42

TRIS

We are driving back to the hotel, now, and Tobias is holding me on his lap in the front seat. He hasn't stopped holding me.

I don't mind. If my body weren't so tired of sitting still, I could stay this way indefinitely. All I have thought about since I woke up was being in his strong arms, again. Feeling them wrapped around me, secure. I am not drifting, anymore. He is my rudder and my anchor. I lean my head against his shoulder and close my eyes. I am content, and we arrive at our destination too soon.

Zeke finds a two-hour parking spot near the hotel, and everyone climbs out of the truck. Except me. Tobias carries me. I look at my friends as we walk the few blocks and wonder that they are here—and that we aren't attracting more stares. We are exhausted and aching. Some of us are soaked through and bleeding. Christina has leaves in her hair. And I'm wearing a hospital gown. I shake my head and realize, I could care less.

We arrive at the entrance to the hotel, and Caleb holds the door for the rest of us. As soon as we walk into the large room beyond, I am amazed by what I see. Polished floors. Sleek furniture. Dark, glossy wood. Shiny gold. Sparkling crystal. It's more than I could have imagined or dreamed. And I feel completely out of place. Like I've not only lost two and half years of my life, but also woken up in a world I don't know. A world in which I'm an absolute stranger.

I cling to Tobias more tightly, and he kisses the top of my head. I notice he's staring at our little group, as well, and wonder if he's thinking the same thing I was—that we stand out—and not in a good way.

"Hey, Christina," Tobias calls quietly. "Check out that reception counter over there. They might have some first aid supplies to take care of your arm," he says, nodding toward a long desk with one or two people sitting behind it.

"Seriously? So they have anything you could ever want to treat bullet wounds?" Christina says sarcastically.

"Well, they can do everything else, so why not?" he says with a chuckle and walks in the opposite direction, toward a spacious room on our right scattered with comfortable-looking couches and chairs.

"Zeke. Caleb. This is the lounge," Tobias says when he gets near the entrance. "You can hang out here. Get some rest. Grab something to eat. If you need a dry shirt, there's a shop at the end of the atrium, there. Whatever you guys need, have them charge it to my room. I'll take care of it when we get ready to go."

"Awesome. Thanks man," Zeke says, grinning, and smacks Tobias on the shoulder. "Not a smart move on your part, but awesome."

"I'm going to take Tris upstairs for a little while. Let her settle down before we have to jump back in the truck. Give us an hour, okay?" Tobias says, still holding me, still seeming not to care that some of the early-morning guests of the hotel are starting to notice.

Zeke glances at his watch and frowns. "You sure we have ti—," he begins to ask.

"We have time," Tobias interrupts firmly. "One hour. Please?" I can hear the urgent edge in his voice. I want to see his face and read his eyes, but I can't.

"Uh, sure. One hour's fine. I can eat a heck of a lot in an hour, just so you know," he says with a smirk as he turns and walks into the lounge.

Tobias watches Zeke and Caleb sink onto a soft green couch, much to the consternation of a few people near them, and then walks briskly toward the end of the atrium. There's an elevator at the end. I assume he's taking me there. But then what?

"Where are we going?" I ask, feeling both incredibly tired and curious at the same time.

"We're getting a room. Remember?" he answers, and I can hear the humor in his voice.

Electricity tingles through me, and I feel warm. I have to fight to keep my breathing even. To not give away how excited and nervous I am to be alone with him, again. "Only an hour?" I ask, trying to sound light.

We step into the elevator, and I'm glad we're the only ones in it. He looks down at me and his face has turned gravely serious. My brow furrows in confusion. What could have happened to change his mood so quickly? "Tobias, what's wrong?" I ask, my face angled up to him as much as possible. "Tell me."

He sighs deeply and says, "It's the Fringe. The people there are still angry. And the rebels keep stirring up all the old problems. They want change, and they haven't seen enough of it. So they're ready to attack the Bureau. Mostly out of frustration, because it won't change anything. But I guess they think revenge is better than nothing." I feel him shake his head above me, and he exhales, again. "I keep trying to convince them they're wrong."

"But what does that have to do with you?" I ask, confused, as we step off the elevator and walk down a red-carpeted hallway.

"I've been trying to work toward a peaceful resolution. With Johanna Reyes. I made a deal with some of the rebel leaders—do you remember Rafi and Mary?—to try and get a school built in the Fringe. We all hoped that would give the people a sense of purpose. Something productive to put their energies toward," he explains and stops at door number 317.

He sets me down next to him so he can dig into his pocket for the key. He unlocks the door and nudges it open with his foot, scooping me up into his arms, again. We walk into the darkened room, and he gently lays me down on a soft bed. Then he walks over to a desk at the foot of the bed, flips on a lamp, and returns to sit next to me, resting his hand on my stomach.

"I was here to convince some Senators to give us the funding for it," he continues, tracing little circles on me with his fingers. "Anyway, it's a long story. The shortest version is that I didn't get the school, but I _did_ find out about you." He looks down at me, his eyes burning with intensity. "I didn't know you were alive until about 36 hours ago, and its been torture ever since. I couldn't believe you were alive all this time, and I didn't know it. Then I had to wait to come get you—."

He runs his hand over his face and shudders. I can see the toll these years have taken on him. It makes me sadder than I know how to express. I only spent a few weeks agonizing over his absence. He spent _years_ agonizing over mine.

I reach up a hand and cup his cheek, cradling his face. "I am so sorry," I say. Because there is nothing else _to_ say.

A tear runs into my hand, and I wipe it away with my thumb. My lips are trembling and suddenly all I want is for him to make it stop. To press his mouth to mine and make it stop.

He exhales and whispers, "I haven't slowed down since the moment I found out. I want time to stop, now. Even for a few minutes. Even if it seems we have no time to spare."

I pull his face down to me and kiss him gently. "We have time. Right now," I say, sighing into his ear. I move my lips over his, again. Run my hands through his hair.

"No. We don't," he says, pushing back just far enough to look into my eyes. They are steady and intense and deep. Everything I remember them to be.

I frown, dissatisfied by the distance between us. "I still don't understand. What's the rush?" I ask, frustrated.

"When I couldn't guarantee them the school, the rebels scheduled the attack. It's tomorrow morning. I have to get back to try and stop it," he says, resolute. He leans down and rests his forehead on my chest.

I stroke the back of his neck and ask, "But what do you think you can do? What's your plan?"

He looks up at me, his eyes apologetic. I see fear there, too. "I need to take _you_ to them." He pauses and swallows. "I can't help feeling that if they could just see you—the person who defied the Bureau, almost died at the hands of the Bureau, and then returns to save the Bureau—that that might mean something, somehow."

I don't say anything, because I don't know what to say. He frowns at me, and I can see that he desperately wants me to understand why this is so important to him. How_ I_ am so important.

"I just think, if they could see someone like you overcome your past, then they could believe it possible to overcome theirs. To put bitterness aside," he says quietly, running his finger over my lips.

"I hate to ask this of you. You have already sacrificed so much. But I think that's also the reason _you_ can make a difference, here," he says confidently, staring into my eyes and holding me there.

I'm not sure I believe this of myself. That my sacrifices could mean something to them. That they would matter. That they could give the people of the Fringe hope they didn't know they could have. But when I look in Tobias' eyes, I forget my doubts. I feel like I can see what he sees. And maybe it _is_ possible.

I nod at him, and he exhales heavily. Like a heavy burden has been lifted off his chest. His eyes flit to the clock, and he jumps up. "I have to go, but I'll be right back. I'll hurry. I promise." He smiles at me and puts a finger to my lips to stifle my protests. "Just enjoy the rest while I'm gone."

"You realize that's practically all I've done for the last two weeks or so. I was literally chained to a bed for a lot of it," I say pointedly, grabbing his shirt with my hand so I can pull him in for another kiss.

"Don't remind me," he says, his voice hard. But he allows me to kiss him, and I feel layers of the tension slip away. He sighs and stands up. "Really. I'll be right back." And he turns and runs out the door.

Not five minutes later, he returns with a bag in his hands, breathing heavily. Apparently, he actually ran. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls out a shirt and a pair of pants. "They didn't have a lot to choose from," he admits with a frown, "and I had to guess on the size. But I figured almost anything would be better than wearing that white thing for another day or so," he concludes with a shy smile.

I smile back and reach for the shirt, but he puts a hand to my shoulder and presses me into the bed. I look at him questioningly and see determination fill his eyes. He moves down to the end of the bed and carefully puts both of my feet into their respective holes.

"I can dress myself you know," I say nervously, lying completely still.

"I know," he answers with a crooked smile. Then he gently slides the pants up my legs and runs his hands up under the gown, pulling them over my hips. I feel like I might not breathe again.

Then he reaches for my hands and pulls me up into a sitting position. He grabs the bottom of the gown and lifts it over my head, never moving his eyes from mine. I feel the cool air on my exposed skin and am suddenly conscious of how even more pale and angular I am, now. But he leans down and presses a kiss into my stomach, saying, "Still beautiful."

Suddenly my skin is warm and I reach for him. I yank off his shirt, not being nearly as gentle. It gets stuck on his head, and he laughs. When I finally free him, he's grinning at me, and his eyes are hungry. He presses against me and urgently kisses along my collarbone and my neck. And my mouth. He holds me like he's still struggling to believe I'm real.

I run my hands over his tattooed skin, marveling over how beautiful every inch of him is. I trace my fingers along his chest and stop. "What's this?" I ask, whispering into his skin, smelling the salt and the warmth, there.

"It's a bird," he breathes. "I got it for you. The day I scattered your ashes. So you would always be a part of me."

Waves of emotion roll within me, pulling me under, tossing me in its current, moving me with its tides. All I can manage to say is, "I am." And I slide my arms around his sides and up his back. I inhale his kisses and feel our breaths intermingle and grow deeper and more intense.

He sits back, his eyes a little wild, and reaches for the shirt he laid on the bedside table. He brings it over my head, and I work my arms through the sleeves. I close my eyes and sigh, flopping back onto the bed. He lays down next to me, and I can see him staring. Like he's seeing me for the first time and can't pull his eyes away.

I turn my head and smile at him. "So, you're still being wise?"

He grins sheepishly and says, "I _always_ want to be wise."

"Well, that's a shame," I tease, kissing him softly on the lips.

"No it isn't," he says seriously, draping his arm over my hip. He looks at me intently and says, "Besides, we have plenty of time—for that."

"Oh, we do?" I ask lightly, raising my eyebrows at him and tracing a finger along his hooked nose.

"Yes. Because I'm going to marry you. When all this is over. If you want to, of course," he says, suddenly intense as he pulls me against him.

I can't help being surprised, and I know it registers on my face. "But Tobias, don't you think we're a little young?"

"No we aren't," he responds confidently. Like he's thought this through. "I'm almost 21, and you're almost 19. Lots of Abnegation were married by that age."

"But we aren't Abnegation, where people are so selfless they're completely united once they've committed to it. And we aren't Daunltess, where people are brave enough to face the worst parts of each other, and love them anyway. We aren't either of those things, anymore," I say earnestly, sitting up and putting my hands on his chest.

"Yes, we are," he argues, putting his hands over mine. "We don't live in factions, but we can still live by their best virtues. I have both of those qualities, and so do you. We don't have to belong to a faction. We belong to each other, remember?"

"I remember," I say quietly. I remember when I thought I had no one left. Tobias promised to be my family. Now he just wants to fulfill that promise. A new life in a new world. What could make more sense than that?

"I don't care what other people will think. I choose you. I choose you today and tomorrow and every day after that. I don't want to miss _anything_ else. Okay?" he says seriously, sitting up so that we face each other.

"Okay," I say shyly, looking down at my hands.

"Okay, you agree, or okay, you'll marry me?" he asks anxiously, jumping off the bed like he can't stand to sit still.

"Of course, I agree." How could I not? I've said almost the same things to him, before, and I meant every word. "And, yes, I'll marry you Tobias. Of course I will," I say, grinning.

I finally understand the way we shore each other up. It's not in the filling in of deficiencies or weaknesses, exactly. Though we do that sometimes. We balance each other. We anchor each other. But it's also more than that. We complete one another in a way that multiplies, that makes us more than what we were before. Not because we are less than but because we are mysteriously increased. A process of addition without any subtraction.

He sweeps me up off the bed and wraps me in his arms. In his exuberance, my feet swing into the bedside table and knock the blue glass sculpture into the wall, hard. He immediately sets me down, and we both stare at the place it has fallen. And at the cracks running through it. Stunned. I didn't even see it was there.

"I'm so sorry, Tobias," I say, kneeling to floor. I carefully pick it up and hold it out to him.

He takes it from me and examines it for awhile before saying, "It's okay. I don't need it anymore."

"But what will Evelyn say?" I ask, concerned, my eyes still apologetic as I stand and take his hand.

He pulls me into his arms and holds me tightly, the unspoken echo of all our spoken promises. Then he rests his cheek against the top of my head and says, "She'll be glad for me."


	43. Chapter 43

TOBIAS

I hastily scour the room, not wanting to miss anything and leave it behind. I'm amazed it's so hard to find just two or three things. _Clearly, I've been a little distracted since I've been here_, I think. I find the suit pants under the bed and the coat under the blanket. I fold the suit as neatly as I can and slide it into my bag next to the computer. Then I toss the shirt that got me through my frenzied workouts into the trash. It's not fit to make the return trip.

Tris stands in front of the mirror scrutinizing her appearance. She frowns as she runs a hand over her face and neck. I wish she wouldn't. I know in my mind there are differences, there. But somehow, I don't_ see_ them. That should be more important than what the mirror says. Just another thing the Abnegation got right.

I take a minute to slide up behind her and wrap my arms around her waist. "I told you. Still beautiful," I say, kissing her neck.

She sighs and gives me a small smile that doesn't quite touch her eyes. I can see she's about to argue with me, but a loud knock interrupts.

"Hey! You guys decent in there?" Zeke calls through the door.

Color rises on Tris' cheeks, and she turns away from the mirror. I roll my eyes and shout back, "Yes. Of course."

"Then let us in so we can bring a little excitement to the room. _Someone_ should be getting indecent," Zeke says as I swing the door open. He stands there grinning mischievously and holds up a bag. "We got new shirts. You have great taste, by the way," he says as he comes through the door. Christina and Caleb follow close behind.

"You couldn't have changed downstairs? That would've been faster," I say sarcastically, stuffing the last item, my blue button-down shirt, into my bag.

Christina snorts and says, "He wanted to. But I didn't think the people down there would appreciate the show."

"Well, they're missing out," Zeke retorts, pulling his shirt off. "This isn't something you see every day," he says, strutting over to the mirror.

"Yah, well, I'll be in the bathroom if you need me. Vomiting," Christina says with a smirk and shuts the bathroom door behind her.

"They had bathrooms downstairs, you know," I say pointedly, carrying my bag over to the door.

"But then we wouldn't be here, annoying you," Zeke says, grinning into the mirror.

Tris sits down on the bed beside Caleb. They don't say anything to each other. They don't touch either. That's not how Abnegation families are raised. But I can see their bodies involuntarily inclined toward one another. And I smile. That's a good sign.

"So, you all ready to go, then?" Zeke asks, pulling his new shirt over his head.

"All packed. How're we doing on time?" I ask, sitting down next to Tris and resting my hand on her knee. We are also still restricted, in part, by Abnegation standards of affection. No touch is casual. I don't really want it to be. I fight not to drum my fingers, holding it there, calm. Controlled.

"I gave you an extra 15 minutes—you're welcome for that—so I figure if we leave now and it's a perfect trip with no car trouble or other delays and I don't get lost and Christina doesn't need as many bathroom breaks—," Zeke starts calculating.

"Hey!" Christina yells from the bathroom. "I heard that!"

"If we leave, soon—hopefully we'll get to Chicago about 10:30 p.m. But that's assuming a smooth trip. Which is not so realistic," he admits. "Plus, once we get there, we'll have to drive all the way out to the Bureau. I'm hoping we get there by midnight," he says, serious, for once.

I exhale deeply. "Okay, that's doable. That would give us enough time, I think, to prepare the Bureau leaders for what's coming. And, hopefully, convince them to adopt a reasonable defensive strategy. Better yet," I say standing up, emboldened by a new thought, "if there's time, Tris and I can go directly to Rafi and Mary. Maybe persuade them to use their influence to call it off. Or at least, get us a meeting with all the rebel leaders so we can plead our case."

I start shifting from foot to foot and chew the inside of my cheek, anxious. That's an even better plan. Because we can go right to the source and avert the conflict altogether. If we can get the leaders in the Fringe to see reason, to realize starting another war isn't going to change anything or help anybody, maybe we can avoid more bloodshed. More war will only cause more damage. And damage is what they are determined will not define them.

"Well, let's go, then," Tris says, looking at me evenly, like she's waiting for me to confirm it. She climbs off the bed and comes to my side, taking my hand. It helps. I don't feel as uneasy. She keeps me steady.

I lead the way down to the atrium, and when the elevator reaches the first floor, I say, "You guys go ahead and load up in the truck. I think I've got to check-out at the reception counter. I should leave Johanna a message, too. But we'll meet you as soon as we're done, here."

Zeke, Christina, and Caleb head out of the hotel in a cluster, while Tris and I approach the reception counter. The woman recognizes me by now and tries to keep her face professionally blank and polite. But I notice that she keeps glancing in Tris' direction, curious. I focus on quickly getting the last details taken care of so we can get on the road. We have a long trip ahead with no certainty it will be a smooth one, which makes it hard to know exactly what we'll be able to do when we finally get there. I only know what I _hope_ we can do.

I'm paying the outstanding bill on my account when I hear, "Tobias!" from behind us.

Johanna emerges from the elevator and walks briskly toward us. She stops short a few feet away, dismayed, when she sees Tris standing next to me. Her wide eyes run over Tris from head to toe, and still, she says nothing. Her mouth opens and closes, and she shakes her head, like she can't remember what she was doing.

"Johanna?" I ask tentatively, concerned, reaching out a hand to lightly touch her arm.

"Tobias," she says, freed from her shock. "What's—this?! I—I've been looking all over for you! I don't understand—," she says, gesturing to Tris for lack of words.

"I don't have time for a long explanation," I say, frustrated. I have to keep saying this, and I know how irritating it must be to hear. But it's true. "Simply put, I went out on my own looking for a way to get the school. I found Tris, instead." I shrug, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close into my side. I could explain it all, given enough time, but sometimes, I still feel speechless, too.

I have to give Johanna credit. She's a very strong woman and able to sift the essential from the non-essential. Like the wheat from the chaff. She nods her head, smooths her face, and turns to the task at hand. "Tobias, I've made no headway on the school. We need to warn the people at the Bureau."

I shake my head decisively. "No, I don't think we should. Not from a distance. If we arm them without tempering them, this will surely develop into the first conflict of a full-scale war," I say gravely, squeezing Tris' arm. "I need to tell them in person, to make sure they don't resort to anything rash or inhumane."

Johanna considers this, and I can tell by the set of her face she sees the wisdom in it. The reset altered memories, not history. She frowns. "But we can't fly out unti—."

"Until tomorrow afternoon. I know. I checked," I say, running a hand over my head. Every minute spent with Johanna only serves to remind me of the urgency of our situation. "But Zeke, Christina, and Caleb are here—with a truck. We're leaving, now, and I should get there in plenty of time to talk to the leaders of the Bureau. Maybe even Rafi, too."

She nods, again, and exhales heavily. "Alright. I trust you to handle this, Tobias. And I'll be there as soon as I can."

She looks at me hesitantly for a second, then leans in for a brief hug. But it's more like lightly clasping my shoulders. I'm surprised, but don't say so. I doubt most representatives and their assistants have weathered the storms we've been through. Or the ones we still face. Johanna quickly releases me, and Tris and I walk swiftly—as swiftly as I feel comfortable forcing her to go—out of the hotel.

Tris keeps glancing at my face, wondering, but I'm not sure how to explain the relationship between Johanna and myself. Tris helped me to know who I am, what I am capable of. Johanna gave me purpose and direction when I needed it. I couldn't have done without either.

Zeke's already behind the driver's seat when we reach the truck. Caleb and Christina are both asleep in the back. I frown. They must all be exhausted. "Hey, Zeke, let me start out. I know you need the rest, too."

"Since when do you know how to drive?" he asks, eyebrows raised, his obviously-tired body slumped forward over the wheel.

"Amar taught me when we were driving around the Fringe one day. He lets me practice now and then, too. I'll be fine. Seriously. Let me give you a break. Then you can take over when you feel better," I say, standing at the door expectantly, trying to smooth out the impatient edge to my voice. "If you really have to, you can man the map and navigate for me."

"Alright, fine. But don't wreck this beauty. It would take all of—well, a week's savings to replace her," he says with a grin as he slides across the seat, making room for Tris and me to climb in.

"Thanks, Zeke," she says with a smile. I'm glad she doesn't leave too much space between us.

"No problem. I'm always willing to do the little things. The _little_ things, mind you," he says, leaning his head against the window and closing his eyes.

It's 8:40 a.m. when we finally pull away from the curb of the hotel. It takes longer to get out of D.C. than I'd hoped, because I'm not familiar with the maze of roads crossing and overlapping one another. And the map isn't much help, there. Tris directs me to follow the signs as best she can, though she's often distracted by the buildings and monuments—or what's left of them—as we pass. I don't blame her. I was the same way when I first saw them.

I drive for about five hours without much trouble. Zeke actually did make some notes on the map, and I'm able to avoid major problems like blockages or discontinued roads. We encounter some detours, but most of those are marked, and we're able to maneuver back onto the main roads fairly quickly.

There isn't much traffic to contend with. Not that many people seem to have vehicles, anymore. Those that do tend not to venture out of their insular cities. Like the Fringe, the outlying regions just aren't as safe or predictable. I don't know if the road conditions contribute to the tendency for these concentrations to stay isolated, or if the government stopped maintaining the roads when people failed to use them. Either way, it's the reality of traveling across a broken land.

Tris and I take advantage of the relative privacy. Sometimes we talk. About everything and nothing. Sometimes we sit in silence, enjoying that we can. Finally being near one another is enough.

I hate to disturb these peaceful moments between conflicts, but I have to. Urgent needs are pressing in, not to be ignored. I have to find a place to fill the truck with gas, soon, and I know from Zeke's account that can be a long search. So we stop at the next place I find, not wanting to take a chance. It's a good opportunity for everyone to briefly stretch their legs and grab something to eat, too.

So I wake them, and they pile groggily out of the truck. I can tell they're still weary. My gratefulness is surpassed only by my desire to reach our destination. Everyone hurriedly takes turns in the bathroom, and Christina scrounges up what passes for sandwiches and some bottles of the fizzy drink. Tris and I make a face at each other, and I grin.

Zeke reclaims command of the truck, and I pull Tris onto my lap now that my hands are free. "So, how are we tracking?" he asks, unfolding the map to orient himself.

"Well enough that we had time to stop but not well enough to sit and talk about it," I say with a straight face. Tris elbows me in the stomach, and I can't help laughing.

"Alright. Cut it out over there you two. Don't distract the driver," he says, pulling back onto the road. "And no making out either. No one wants to see it."

"We wouldn't dare," I say, laughing, again, and hugging Tris to me. "Only _you_ would do that."

Now that my eyes are no longer on the road ahead, I watch Tris. Drinking her in. I can't help it. After awhile she says, "You can stop doing that. I'm not going to disappear."

"Are you sure?" I ask quietly, leaning my head against the window. I press my lips into a line. I've gone from the depths of despair to the heights of happiness in such a short span of time. I still haven't processed it. And I hate heights. But this time, I'd be content to stay, here. I just know from experience, I don't always get what I want.

"What are you doing?" I ask, taken aback. I adjust in my seat to get a better look at her face.

"What do you mean?" she says, unsure and suddenly self-conscious. She runs her eyes over her body and back up to my face.

"You're chewing on your cheek. I can see it!" I say, surprised, putting my hands on either side of her face.

She looks down at her hands. "Just a little habit I picked up. From watching you so much, I guess. I can't help it," she says honestly, looking at me sideways, measuring me.

No, we can't help it. Either of us.

I see a small smile spread on Caleb's face, and Christina chuckles from the back seat. Zeke coughs loudly. "Not sure why. He must have other shining qualities—," he says, letting his voice trail off suggestively.

I roll my eyes and kick his leg with my foot. "Just drive, Zeke. Just drive," I say, shaking my head.

We make it another four hours without interruption. Zeke and Christina pass the time bantering back and forth. Caleb mostly listens and observes. Tris keeps her eyes on the window, taking in the landscape as it changes. First flat, then rolling, then mountainous. Then flat, again. We've never seen anything like it. And it's still hard to believe that it was here all along.

Whenever we pass something particularly beautiful or interesting, she inhales sharply or presses her nose to the glass. Her intense curiosity is endearing, and I watch her as much as I watch the world outside. But, eventually, I feel my own weariness blur the edges of my vision, and the fog of sleep starts to roll through my mind. I nod against the window, and Tris leans against me. Relaxing into me. Resting, really resting, for the first time in years.

When I wake, it is to the strange sensation of floating, immediately followed by a jarring so violent that my head snaps forward and my arms fly open. My body slams forward into the seat-belt, knocking all the wind from my chest. And Tris' body—I don't know where Tris' body is.


	44. Chapter 44

TRIS

My body slams into something hard. Pain seers through my side. Then more pain, tearing through my head. I don't remember where I am, but I feel light. Blackness washes over me. Something firm surrounds me. There are glimpses of blue and flashes of green and hardness beneath me.

I hear a voice. Tobias' voice. He is kneeling over me, his hands on my face, saying, "Tris? No, no, no, no. Tris? Tris?"

My head is reeling, and I feel like my chest is compressed. Pain shoots through my ribs. Like someone kicked me. I groan and roll onto my side, eyelids flickering. I see his face, etched with worry. And fear. I can't let him look like that.

"Tobias, I'm fine. I'm fine," I insist softly. "What happened?" I moan, again. I force my eyes open, to focus. I see trees and cloudless sky. I see Zeke, Christina, and Caleb hovering behind Tobias. They look worried, too. "What happened?" I repeat firmly.

"I guess I was still more tired than I realized," Zeke says, his face drawn. He kneels down next to me, too. "I fell asleep while I was driving and ran off the road. We went down into a ditch. I'm so sorry, Tris," he says sincerely, frowning.

I look to Tobias for more. "You flew out of my lap and hit the dashboard. Then, when we went down the embankment, you hit your head on the window. The window's cracked, now," he says, his eyes wide, his hands on my head.

"Your head's cracked, too," Christina pipes up, smiling. She hands Tobias something blue. "Here. I dug this out of your bag."

He shoots her an irritable look. Like he's not happy with her straightforward brand of humor, right now. But I don't mind. That's how Christina is. He takes the blue cloth from her and presses it to my forehead, hard. I wince.

I've endured many kinds of pain before. Too many. But somehow, they're all different. And—in their own way—difficult. No matter how tough you are. Feigning the absence of it isn't what makes you strong. It makes you fake. A strong person handles the pain they bear, well. Just like the Dauntless weren't defined so much by the absence of fear as they were by their denial of its power. And I admired that. Being strong and brave in the face of hardship, whatever it is. I just never considered how much harder it is when you're the weak one. It's a different kind of endurance altogether.

I sigh and watch Tobias, wishing we were alone, again. It seems like we've always been wishing for more of that. I wonder what it will be like when we finally have it. I'm almost willing to believe we really will, now. I reach for his hand and hold it tightly, not wanting to let go. Not wanting to take my eyes from his for a second. But Caleb comes over and nudges Zeke out of the way—and I am distracted. He gives Tobias a look and peeks under the compress. I read concern on both their faces.

"That probably needs stitches," he says. "She won't bleed out or anything," he continues, in an effort to calm Tobias. "But she'll be light-headed. And it won't close—or stop anytime soon—on it's own. Some kind of medical care would be helpful."

Tobias stands up, agitated, and Caleb takes over pressing on my head. "Zeke. How's the truck?" Tobias calls out.

Zeke comes into my peripheral vision and stands next to Tobias, shaking his head. "Seems like it'll run fine. The engine starts. But the spare didn't hold up coming down the embankment. It's busted. And the truck's sitting at an awkward angle. We'll have to push it forward so it can sit flat—weight distributed on all four tires—just to change the bad one."

Tobias exhales deeply and crosses his arms over his chest, eying me. "Caleb, let Christina do that. You come help Zeke and me. We're going to put it in neutral and see if we can roll it forward."

I don't know how long it takes. I'm not any good at measuring the passage of time. It seems like awhile. They shout and grunt a lot. I hear a few curse words, too. I hear the truck groan as they strain to push it into a level position, a far more difficult task with one tire flat. Christina mutters now and then about how she'd do this or that differently. But, finally, they are quiet except for the sound of their breathing, heavy with exertion.

Tobias walks over and kneels by my head, again. He grabs my hand and squeezes hard. I don't understand why he's still acting like I'm so fragile.

"Tris, Zeke and I have to go find a new tire. And, hopefully, we can also find a way to get you some medical care," he says, his voice soothing as he strokes my hair back from my forehead.

He stands up and looks over at Zeke, arms crossed, again. "So how are we doing on money?"

He's in planning mode, processing. I smile, despite the ache that pounds through my head.

"I brought plenty for gas to make it home. But I don't think there would be extra for the tire. At least, I wouldn't want to spend it and risk coming up short," Zeke replies, his brow furrowed as he paces around our little circle.

"I have some left," Tobias says, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I don't know if it will be enough or not, especially if we also need medical supplies."

"Do you have anything you can sell or barter?" Caleb asks from beside me. Always the logical one.

"I have a suit—," Tobias starts to say, chewing the inside of his mouth. It's so obvious. Of course I notice when he does it.

"No one around here's going to want your suit," Christina chimes in pointedly, repositioning the rag on my head. "But I saw a computer in your bag. Somebody's sure to want that."

Tobias nods. "Well, I don't think Johanna would have any objections. Getting back to the Bureau is the most important thing." He looks up at Zeke. "You remove the spare tire. We'll have to take it with us for comparison. I'll transfer all my files off the computer and wipe it clean," he says decidedly, already on his way to the truck to get his bag.

When they're ready to go, Tobias addresses Caleb and Christina. "You two stay here and watch over Tris and the truck. We'll leave you Zeke's gun, just in case," he says, surveying our surroundings warily with his eyes. There's a lonely stretch of road up the hill on our left and scattered woods on our right. Hopefully, that's all we'll see.

Zeke jogs over and hands Christina his handgun. She nods in thanks, checks the safety, and tucks it into her waistband.

He nods at Tobias and says, frowning, "I looked over the map real quick. The nearest town is about five miles away. But that doesn't necessarily mean anything. The map isn't any more accurate about cities than it is about roads, sometimes."

Tobias exhales and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. I can tell he's agitated but fighting to remain in control of himself. That's something that has always amazed me about him. His intense, obsessive energy and the way he's able to work with it, and in spite of it. I doubt other people notice. They just see his cool, confident exterior. I know the effort he expends. The strength behind his strength.

"Well, we'll just have to do the best we can," he says firmly, staring down the empty road. As though he'll be able to see their destination and what they'll find there if he tries hard enough.

"Carrying a computer bag and a tir—," Zeke says wearily, throwing his hands up and tucking them behind his head.

"We'll just have to do the best we can," Tobias says, again, lowering himself to the ground. He leans over and kisses my forehead, then my lips. Lightly at first, then more deeply. Like he's taking my breath with him. I already feel light-headed. Now it's compounded. "I'm sorry I have to leave you," he whispers, and stands up.

He pulls the strap of the bag across his chest, and Zeke picks up the tire. They look at each other, then take off up the hill and down the road, their gate an odd combination of awkward jogging and lumbering. I sigh and try to sit up to watch them go, but that makes the ground sway around and beneath me. So I lay back down, for now.

Christina walks over with some food she dug out of the back of the truck. "Good thing I picked up some extra snacks at our last stop," she says, passing them around.

We sit mostly in silence. I nibble on the crackers and am glad they stay put. It actually helps. Christina and Caleb take turns holding the compress to my head. As long as they apply consistent pressure, it doesn't bleed, anymore. But their arms get tired quickly, so they switch often. I can tell by the faces they make when they check it that it doesn't look good.

Darkness begins to fall so Caleb rummages through the truck until he finds a flashlight. He returns triumphantly and says with a crooked grin, "See, I _am_ good for something!"

"Caleb, you're good for a lot of things," I say, smiling as I watch the orange-pink edges of the sky fade and ebb away.

"Well, I'm going to tell Zeke to pack some flares next time. This is ridiculous," Christina grumbles, knees pulled up to her chest, one hand still pressing on my head.

"You mean the next time you have to rescue me and we drive a truck into the dirt?" I ask, amused.

"No. Let's not do _this_, again. But, whenever. And a few bandages, too. Seriously. Have some forethought," she says. I can see the whites of her eyes rolling in the dim.

"Maybe not Zeke's strong suit?" Caleb ventures, joining our little huddle. "Although, he did get the bullet-proof vests. That worked out pretty well," he concedes. And we laugh.

We sit in total darkness, now, with just the flashlight for comfort. After awhile, Christina starts shifting uncomfortably. "Hey, Caleb," she calls. "Can you take a turn? I need to go—out to the woods."

"Yah, sure," he says, scooting over to me and taking her spot.

She runs off into the woods yelling, "Don't shine the light on me!"

We sit for another minute or so, then hear a low rumbling. Caleb meets my eyes. I can see he's concerned, too. Then we see dual lights moving up the road. I motion to him to flip off the flashlight, but it's too late. The pair of lights comes to a stop. We hear something creak. Then I see a smaller light and huffing as someone makes their way down the hill toward us. Heavy footsteps approach, then a bright beam shines into my eyes.

"What're ya'll doing out here? Don't ya know this'nt safe?" says a large man. I don't like the way he says it. It's not a helpful warning. It's—something else.

"We—we're fine," Caleb stutters, edging closer to me. "We just had a little accident. We'll be on our way before long."

The man steps closer, and I see a flash of light reflecting on metal. A knife. If this man is anything like someone from the Fringe, he's scavenging. And he's not afraid to fight for whatever he can get. Because he's probably desperate. And desperate people can do some very stupid, very terrible things. The question is—how desperate is he?

My stomach clenches. I try to think. I try to think through the lingering haziness. I shake my head and let out a low groan. I shouldn't have done that. I automatically tense and then pain runs through my ribs. I exhale forcefully. This is bad. This is very bad.

"Ya'll have anythin' in that trucks of yours? How 'bout I have a look. Act'ly," he says, considering, taking another step toward us, "how 'bout I check ya'll out first."

There is a rush of feet in the darkness. Then a voice. "Stay right where you are."

Christina.

He swings his flashlight around and catches the barrel of the gun, aimed right at him. He doesn't move, but brandishes the knife a little, and says, chuckling, "I bet you don't even know how to use that."

She squeezes off a round, and it whizzes by his ear. "Pay up," she says darkly. "You better believe I missed on purpose that time. Fair warning. Don't gamble with me again."

The man hesitates. But then I see him shifting his weight to the toes of his shoes. I motion to Caleb, and he brings the heavy, metal flashlight up into the man's arm, knocking the knife free. I think I see where it lands, the blade reflecting the light as it falls. So I roll onto my hands and knees, ignoring the ground that moves under me. Ignoring the way my side feels like splitting in two. I crawl through the grass and dirt until my hands reach metal.

"We have all the weapons, now," I say, breathing heavily.

"Seems like you should be going," Christina says, her voice hard, her gun unwavering.

He moves the flashlight over Christina, Caleb, and me, and he nods. Christina and Caleb follow him back to his vehicle, keeping their distance. Keeping their threat imminent.

"If you have anything to eat in the truck, toss it down to us," Caleb calls, shining his light into the man's face.

I hear a few thuds on the ground, then the sound of a door slamming shut. The engines revs, and the wheels squeal as he pulls onto the road and takes off, accelerating into the night.

Caleb returns with an armful of items. A couple bottles of water and a bag of nuts. He sits down next to me, pulls off his shirt, and holds it against my head, which has started slowly bleeding, again.

"Well, the other compress is probably dirty, now," he says simply. "And my other shirt's probably dry." Then he wedges a bottle between his arm and side, twisting the cap with his free hand. I sit up enough for a long drink, amazed at how good it feels and how it clears my head.

Christina joins us and sits down, holding the gun in her lap. Not ready to put it away, yet. "I hope they get back soon," she says, reaching for a bottle of water.

"Me too," I whisper into the black.


	45. Chapter 45

TOBIAS

We run—or try to run—in silence. It takes all our energy just to keep going. There's nothing left for conversation. Me, with the bag slapping against my leg as I go, my gate lopsided and unnatural. And Zeke, trying to run carrying the tire. He has to keep switching sides because his arms get tired, fast. I imagine they are burning by now. And I'm right. He doesn't last long. My awkward load is easier than Zeke's, so I'm sympathetic. Still, it grates on me every time we have to slow down a little more.

I glance at my watch. It's about 7 o'clock, now, and darkness is creeping into the sky above us. I don't know how far we've gone or how far we have yet to go. I only know that the longer this takes, the more I worry about Tris and the less likely we'll have time to do anything effective when we reach the Bureau.

Zeke begins to wheeze and can't seem to catch his breath, so I motion for him to switch with me. He stops, hands on his knees, resting the tire against his leg. I hand him the computer bag, and he drags the strap over his shoulder.

"You okay? Zeke? You okay?" I ask, putting a hand on his back. I can feel him heaving beneath me as he inhales and exhales.

But he nods, so I run an arm through the tire, and we take off again. I can immediately see why he struggled. Trying to hold it far enough from my body to move my legs freely, but unable to easily support the weight. Burning doesn't begin to describe how my arms feel. And eventually, I need a break, too.

We continue like this, switching loads back and forth, the road depressingly bare and interminable, for another 45 minutes, at least. Complete darkness surrounds us, now. I hear only the sound of Zeke's footfall on the pavement and his labored breathing in front of me. Then we see lights on the horizon. Anticipation sparks my adrenaline. Adrenaline fuels my body, and the burning becomes nothing more than a warm blanket. I am like a blind man seeing for the first time.

Finally, we get close enough to see structures rising out of the black. I can see that many look uninhabited—or unfit for it, anyway. There are lights scattered here and there, marking buildings that boast a presence.

"Where should we go?" Zeke asks, still breathing heavily beside me.

"I'm not sure," I say honestly, exhaling in frustration. I look around this place, so eerily like the Fringe. I wonder if all people that choose not to stay in a large city are living this way—and what this town _used_ to be if it was once prominent enough to hold a place on a map. I don't even know where to start. "Let's just walk around," I say, trying to sound confident. "Maybe we'll see something useful."

We walk down one or two poorly maintained streets. They are more dirt than pavement, now. I don't see signs on any of the buildings, which might indicate a supply or grocery store. My agitation burns again, as strongly as my arms did. Walking aimlessly is a pointless waste of time, but we have no direction and no other option. We reach the end of another street and Zeke stops, straining his eyes through the dark.

"Hey, over there," he says, heading in the direction of the last building. "Look at all the old cars and trucks just lying around. Maybe we can buy a tire off one of them?"

I see a dim light through one of the dingy windows streaked with dirt, and I approach cautiously. Hope rises in my chest as we walk around the side of the building. There _are_ a few broken-down trucks, here. It might work. I give Zeke a look, and he shrugs back, so I knock on the window. There is a loud scuffling inside, and the door flies open, revealing a scruffy, hard-looking older man. And he's leveled a gun directly at my chest. All my hope sinks into the pit of my stomach.

"What'd ya want?" he growls, moving the barrel of the gun back and forth between us.

"We want to buy one of your tires," I say, keeping my voice even. I hold my hands in the air to show I'm being truthful and nonthreatening. "We mean no harm. Really. Our truck went off the road some miles back. We just need a new tire."

"Buy it, eh?" he asks uncertainly. Slowly, very slowly, he lowers the gun. Zeke and I both exhale in relief.

"We need one like this," says Zeke, holding up the tire he's been lugging along the road and now dragging in the dirt.

"Hmmm. Might have one like it," says the old man gruffly. "Come on," he orders, throwing the gun up over his shoulder and taking off through the graveyard of vehicles. He stops at a rusted-out truck that might have been blue, once. "How 'bout this un?" he says, poking the tire with the long barrel of his gun.

Zeke kneels down next to the truck and starts comparing the width and the tread. "Looks close enough," he says, standing. I can see his shoulders relax. "But it's not in great condition."

"Well, it's not busted, is it?" the man asks sarcastically, peering at Zeke through the dark.

"Well, no. But I don't know what it's worth—," he starts to say, running a hand over his neck.

"It'll work," the man says decisively. Zeke and I look at each other. I can't see his face, but his shoulders shrug. What else are we going to do?

"Alright," I say, shifting from one foot to the other, and back. I'll make the decision. "We'll take it. How much?"

"How much ya got?" he asks. I can hear the grin in his voice.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a wad of bills. I hold it out to the man. He looks me over, considering, then scratches his balding head.

"How ya gonna get it on yer other rim?" he asks, tapping the metal center of the wheel with the gun.

My stomach clenches into a knot. I hadn't thought about that. We removed our tire from the rim simply because we couldn't carry it otherwise. I never thought about how we'd get one back on. Leaders are prepared and wise. I feel like neither. I chew the inside of my cheek until it hurts. My bag weighs heavily on me, now, and I adjust it, frustrated by the situation and the deep groove in my shoulder. But that gives me a thought.

"I have a computer," I say, smacking the bag with my hand. "If you give us this tire _on_ the rim and—," I look around and bite my lip. "_And_ drive us back to our truck—it's yours."

The man rubs a hand over his bristly chin. "A computer? What makes ya think I'd have use fer it?"

"If you can't use it, you can sell it," Zeke chimes in urgently. "That's always worth something."

"True," says the man, running a hand along the bed of the truck. "Well, alright, boys. You get 'er off, and it's a deal."

"And we need medical supplies," I add, hurriedly, while we still have the man's cooperation and good will. "We need help for one of our friends who was injured in the crash. Can you tell us where to go?"

I can see the whites of his eyes as he shakes his head in the darkness. "Nearest hospital's 30 odd miles. And it shut down a couple years ago." He rubs his chin again. "We got someone who does doctorin'. But I never know how to find 'im. Always out seein' to somebody."

I grit my teeth and clench my hands into fists. Then release. "Well, do _you_ have anything. Anything at all?" I ask, allowing my desperation to color my voice.

"Just might. Gimme a minute. I'll be back," he says, shuffling off into the dark toward the leaning building.

"Or a sewing kit!" I call through the night. "Needle and thread."

"What?" Zeke asks, surprised, from the ground where he's examining the tire.

"Before we left, Caleb pulled me aside and said _he_ could stitch Tris up, if it came to it. He said he saw his father do it, once. When Tris was injured during Jeanine's first simulation attack. Said he couldn't forget it," I say, my voice hollow. I don't want to do it that way, but we may have to.

The old man shuffles back through the dirt and tosses a heavy bag at Zeke's feet. "There's ya some tools fer the tire. Get going. An' here's somethin' fer the one who's hurt," he says, handing me a box.

It's covered in a thick layer of dust. The word "First Aid" is stamped on the front in faded block letters. I open the box and rifle through it. I see he tossed in a pack of needles and spool of thread. There's also bandages and a lot of little white packets. I sigh. It's better than nothing. It's much better than nothing.

"And a ride?" I say, verifying the terms of our agreement and clutching the box to my side. "For the computer?"

"Yep. That'll do," he says, nodding. "Toss yer things in that there truck. She still runs," he says, pointing to a black vehicle on our left. "Lemme grab my keys. Be back in a minute."

I throw our busted tire against a heap of other trash and broken items. Then I help Zeke get the new tire and the bag of tools into the bed of the black truck. I hold onto the first aid kit. The truck is unlocked, so we go ahead and climb in. The old man returns shortly and grunts as he hauls his thin body up into the seat.

"Payment up front," he says, holding the keys hostage over the ignition and turning to look at me in the light of the cab. His face is sunken, but his eyes are steady. This man is no fool.

I dig into my pocket for the money and deposit it on the dash. He snatches it up and greedily tucks it into his fraying coat. Then I open the bag and deliberately pull out the computer.

"I'll give you the computer, but I'm holding onto the power source until you drop us off as agreed," I say, removing the battery from the back. I hold the computer out to him. "Half now. Half later. Just straight down this road. About five miles," I say, gesturing into the distance.

He nods and takes it roughly from me, shoving it under the seat. He wiggles the keys into the ignition, and the truck rumbles to a start. We head out onto the main road in fits and bursts. The constant jostling grates on my nerves. I have to put both hands on the dash to steady myself. Zeke clings to the door handle. The old man seems completely oblivious. It feels like we're just inching along. And I can't help drumming my fingers against the hard plastic interior. _At least we're not walking back_, I think.

I watch the odometer intensely as we go. When we approach five miles, I start scouring the left side of the road with my eyes. Up ahead, I see a flicker of light, but then it disappears. My brow furrows and I shift to the edge of the seat, straining to see into the dark with only the headlights as my guide. I see the flash of light reflecting on metal and glass in the ditch and signal to the man, "Here! Here! Stop, here."

He veers onto the side of the road, skidding to a halt through the dirt and gravel. Zeke and I quickly jump out of the vehicle. Zeke heads around to the back of the truck to unload the tire. I turn to make good on our arrangement, when I hear, "Hey. Don't move. Don't move a muscle." My body instinctively tenses.

"Christina?" I say slowly, carefully turning around and squinting into the dim glow emanating from the cab of the truck.

"Four?" she says, her voice relieved. "Oh man, I'm so glad it's you. We thought—well, it's just been awhile. We were worried." I see her tuck the gun she'd drawn on me back into her pants. "It's getting chilly, too, and the dark is just creepy."

Zeke comes around the side, rolling the tire with him. "Why didn't you just sit in the tru—?"

Christina crosses her arms over her chest, frowning. "And what? Run the gas just for light or heat?" She shakes her head. "Besides, sitting in it wouldn't be safe, propped up on the jack like it is."

"Oh, right," Zeke says quietly, staring at the tire. "Sorry about that. Well, help me get this thing down the hill, and we'll take care of that."

Zeke and Christina start to work their way down the hill. I turn to the old man, hunched over the steering wheel, waiting. "Here," I say, tossing the battery across the seat. "Thanks."

He nods and puts the truck in drive almost before I've slammed the door. Then he swerves as he pulls back on the road, making a wide turn before heading back into the black from where we came.

I exhale forcefully in an effort to expel the physical and mental weariness from my body. Christina and Zeke are already working on the truck, so that's under control. Now I can devote my full attention to Tris. I bound down the embankment but can't find her in the darkness. All I can see is Zeke bent over next to the truck while Christina shines a flashlight beside him.

"Tris? Tris?" I call out, frustrated. This is why I hate being separated. Because I'm always having to find her, again. And I would give anything, absolutely anything, in that pursuit. But, for once, I'd just like to experience the peace of certainty, of knowing, for sure, she'll be exactly where I left her.

"Over here Tobias," she says calmly through the dark.

I walk toward her voice until I can see the outline of their figures, then I run the remainder of the short distance between us. Caleb sits cross-legged on the ground. Tris is propped up against his shoulder. I can just make out her smile.

"How is she?" I ask Caleb, breathless.

"I'm right here, you know," she says. I can tell by her voice she's chiding me. "And I'm fine. I even ate and drank a little. And that helped."

I kneel down beside her and press my lips to her temple, taking her hand. It is like a lifeline to me. I caress it with mine, feeling the peace I craved steal over me. But it doesn't last as long as I'd like. Frustration wells up in me, stealing the peace away. I look to Caleb expectantly, waiting for confirmation of her condition. I realize, then, he can't see me in the dark. But I wait anyway.

Working to temper my exasperation, I prod, "Caleb?"

He clears his throat. "Oh, uh—she's doing much better. The bleeding's under control, but the wound still needs to be tended to. What did you find out?" he asks, hopeful. I detect an anxious edge to his voice.

"You'll have to do it," I say simply, handing him the first aid kit.

He stares down at it, silent. Finally he says, "Well, I'll have to wait for some light. I had to give Christina and Zeke the flashlight, and I'll definitely need it."

"What? Why?" Tris asks. I can see her turn from Caleb to me, but I can't make out her face well.

I press my lips to her temple, again, wishing I could take all her pain away. Wishing I could calm her the way she calms me. I say quietly, willing her any strength that I have to give, "It's the gash in your forehead. We shouldn't leave it open any longer or you'll be susceptible to infection. So Caleb's going to stitch it up."


	46. Chapter 46

TRIS

I pause for a minute before saying, "Okay."

I understand what's going to happen. I'm not unclear in any way, now. Just in pain. I'm not afraid. I don't want Tobias to worry about that. I'm _not_ afraid. But I do remember how it feels. And I can't deny that it's—unpleasant.

I grip his hand tightly. Every other time I've suffered an injury, he wasn't there. This is probably the least serious of them all, if I had to compare. But I'm thankful he's here. That's all I've needed. Not having to face difficulties alone makes the burden so much lighter.

He settles himself on the ground next to us and pulls me into his arms. I rest against his chest, leaning my head on his shoulder. Content. He shifts and fidgets, occasionally, though I can tell he tries not to. He's probably thinking about the time, slowly ticking by, or about my pain. But my pain is just a dull ache compared to the intensity of what I feel for him. It is nothing in comparison.

I turn my head into his neck and whisper, "Tobias. Tobias."

"Hmmm?" he answers quietly, bringing his face down close to mine. I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. It warms all of me.

"I love you. I just wanted to say that," I say, my heart racing. It still thrills me, even though I've known it for a long time. Because it's one thing to feel it and another thing entirely to share it with someone who returns it just as deeply. It binds you. It's amazing.

His arms encircle me even more tightly, and he whispers, "I love you, too. I know I should say it more, but words never seem to be enough."

I nod in understanding, stifling the groan that rises in my throat as the pressure increases on my ribs. His arms loosen, relaxing, and I can breathe, again.

Caleb sits silently next to us, conspicuously ignoring our little moments together. I smile at him through the black, though he can't see me. It's very considerate of him. Zeke or Christina would feel compelled to say something. But they're busy. So I enjoy the illusion of solitude before jumping back into the fray. And it doesn't last long.

Christina jogs over with the flashlight, rubbing her hands on her shirt, and says briskly, "The new tire's on. You guys ready to go?"

"Not yet," Tobias says quietly. I hear an edge to his voice. "Caleb's going to stitch up Tris' forehead before we leave. There's no other place to do it, and I don't want to risk leaving it open any longer. Besides, she can't just hold the rag to her head for the rest of the trip."

"Wow," Christina says, swinging the flashlight from Tobias and me to Caleb, who looks like he might be sick. "Well, okay then. Where do you want to do it?"

She swings the light to Caleb. But he seems not to realize that everyone's waiting for his reply. He stares wide-eyed into the beam, knuckles white, gripping the box of supplies.

"We'll do it in the truck," Tobias says decisively, standing to his feet and pulling me with him. "That will provide better light, I think."

He stood faster than I expected, so I'm temporarily disoriented. But I take a few deep breaths and feel steady, again, soon. _Well, steadier_. Tobias wraps a strong arm around my back, walking me to the truck, which is now sitting level on all four wheels. I hold the compress to my forehead as we walk. It feels damp and crusty, now.

Zeke has the door already open, and Tobias grips my hips as I climb in carefully and sit up. I slowly slide my legs up onto the seat, feet facing the driver's side. Tobias supports my head as I lay down. Then he backs out of the door, making way for Caleb. I hear Tobias run around the truck and open the driver's side door. Then I feel his hands on my legs, just to let me know he's there. I smile and hear Caleb climb up behind me. With my head craned, I can see him. He positions himself next to my head, holding the box on his lap. He looks down at me anxiously.

"Don't worry, Caleb," I say reassuringly, moving the rag so he can see my eyes. "I trust you."

"You do?" he asks nervously, his eyes uncertain.

"Yes. I do," I say firmly, pulling the rag away for his inspection. And to give my permission.

I made the choice to forgive Caleb a long time ago. And you can't forgive halfway. That doesn't mean anything. That's not _real_ forgiveness. Forgiveness is not simply putting aside an offense, it's also deciding to trust, again.

"Okay," he says to himself, opening the box. "Okay."

I can just see him rifling through its contents, muttering to himself. Sometimes he stops to intently read the instructions or descriptions. Finally, he selects a small packet, tears it open, and leans over my head.

"This may sting a little," he says gently, holding a square of something over my head.

I nod. He wipes something cool and wet around my forehead. The closer he gets to the site of the pain, the more I feel. I focus on his eyes. I can see them, and I know he's progressed to a point of concentration, now. He pulls another packet, larger, from the box and tears it open. He takes the clean, white cloth and presses it to my head. When he removes it, it's stained bright red. Next, he picks up a spool and draws out a long thread, cutting it with a tiny pair of scissors. Then, he opens a packet of needles and selects one. A thin one. He threads the needle carefully. Finally, he opens another packet, pulls out another wet square, and wipes it along the needle.

He turns his eyes to mine, waiting. Waiting for me to say I'm ready. Tobias climbs up to just inside the driver's side door, hanging awkwardly into the truck. He slides a knee between my feet, supporting himself with one hand on the back of the seat. The other he slides forward just enough to reach mine. I sigh and close my eyes. I won't be able to see what Caleb's doing above me, but I close them anyway.

"I'm ready," I say firmly, squeezing Tobias' hand, feeling the strength in his fingers. But nothing happens.

"Tobias," says Caleb after a moment, "I think I need you to help hold the skin together. I won't be able to do it with one free hand. Clean yours with the antiseptic wipe I put—yes, right there. Good."

I feel Tobias reposition his knees so that's he's straddling me, but not burdening me with his weight. My eyes snap open, watching him intently. He leans forward, and I feel hard pressure as he pushes the skin together.

"If it seeps and you need to dab it, use that sterile gauze—yes, that's it. Okay," Caleb says from behind me.

I feel pressure, then sharp pain as the needle punctures my skin. It doesn't lessen until he's dragged the needle all the way through. My eyes widen and begin to water. But I fight it, blinking. I control my breathing. Bite my lip. Sharp, dragging pain, again. And again. And again.

I focus on Tobias' deep, steady eyes. They hold me. I fade away from the pain, the way I did when Matthew held me captive. Then, I fled to the arms of dream-Tobias. Now he is here, _with_ me. I see the curve of his mouth and the softness of his lips. I imagine them on me. How amazing they feel.

I hear his breaths, faster and deeper than they need to be. I think about the way he breathes when he kisses me. Just like that. A tear rolls down the side of my face—I can't help it. His brow furrows, and I bite my lip, again. I am going to drown in the intensity of his eyes. Except I don't. Like in my fear simulations. I don't drown. Because I am stronger than that. I swim in them. I am alive.

"Done." I hear Caleb say, satisfied.

I close my eyes, my breathing quick and shallow. Another traitorous tear slips out from beneath my eyelids. Tobias leans down and presses those lips to my forehead. I exhale, again.

"I'm just going to cover it with a bandage, now. To protect it. Then we can go," says Caleb, digging around in the box, again.

I can just see him pressing a new square of white gauze to my head, which he secures with tape. Tobias lifts his eyes. I know he is looking at Caleb intently. But I don't know what his eyes are saying. Then he wraps an arm beneath my back, pulling me up into him. I am upright, again. I lean my head against the seat. I am done swimming. Now I am resting.

"Is the surgery over?" calls Zeke from somewhere outside the truck. "Because it's chilly and dang dark out here."

"Yah, what time is it?" Christina chimes in.

Tobias settles himself next to me on the seat and looks at his watch. "It's 9:30," he says shortly, frowning. "I think we only had about four hours left when we crashed. So—without any more delays—that could put us there around 1:30 a.m.," he says, trying to keep his voice even.

"Well, let's get on the road, then. Should I drive, or do you want a turn?" asks Zeke sheepishly, poking his head into the cab.

"I'll drive," says Tobias, grabbing the steering wheel protectively. "Everybody get in. Christina, do you need to—you know? Or anyone else, for that matter—."

"No, I'm good!" she says cheerfully, wedging herself into the back. "I'm just looking forward to being bumped and rocked to sleep. Seriously. _So_ tired."

Zeke climbs into the back with Christina, tossing Tobias the keys. Caleb gets out and squeezes into the back, also.

"Caleb, will you be okay back there?" I ask, concerned. I turn around just enough to see the three of them packed into the back seat, no room between them. He looks about as comfortable as he would if he were constricted by the zip-line harness.

"This way you can use the seat belt, Tris. I'm fine," he says, looking down at his hands, which are shaking.

Tobias nods and waits for me to strap myself in. Then he turns the key in the ignition and flips on the headlights. There is just enough clearance between the hill and the trees for us to drive through the ditch until the embankment starts to level out and the incline is less steep.

He takes off slowly, the truck rocking over the uneven ground, and presses the gas, hard, when he reaches a place the truck can manage the ascent. The engine and wheels churn, pulling us up the incline. My stomach feels like the engine sounds. Finally, the truck roars onto the edge of the road with a great jolt, and we see the flat stretch of asphalt before us, again.

Tobias turns to me and grins. I reach for his hand, grinning back. He turns his eyes to the road, stepping on the accelerator. But as he approaches full speed, the truck begins to vibrate. I put my hands on the dash, feeling the transfer of energy. Tobias examines the display behind the wheel intently, looking for anything that would identify a problem. The vibrating worsens, not dissipating until he slows to about 40 mph.

"Damn it," he exhales under his breath, his lips in a hard line.

"It must be the tire," says Zeke, frustrated, from the back. "It wasn't new, by any standard. And I knew it looked sketchy. But it was better than noth—."

"I know, Zeke. I know," says Tobias, his voice low. "I'll just have to drive slower."

He sets his face to the road, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. I sense the tension and agitation rising inside him. But I can't hold him, because he's driving. And there's not much I can say to steady him, now, either. Nothing I can say will shorten the miles we have to travel. Nothing I can say will lengthen the amount of time we have to get there. I chew the inside of my cheek and close my eyes, ignoring the pounding in my head. It will be what it will be.

The trip is smooth, but slow. We are all quiet, because we are all tired. None of us have the energy for chatter. We must save everything for what lies ahead. The hours pass. Not four hours, as Tobias hoped. Or five. But six. After six long hours I see the outline of Chicago emerge in the distance, jutting from the horizon line into the night sky.

Tobias exhales heavily. He glances at his watch and shakes his head. It is 3:30 a.m. "I won't have time to find Rafi and Mary in the Fringe," he says darkly. "We'll have to go directly to the Bureau. Hopefully, whatever we can do there will be enough."

"And what will that be?" says Christina, leaning forward so that her hands grip the back of our seat.

I speak up, because I have been thinking about this for awhile. Ever since Tobias first told me where we had to go. I know what I have to do, there. So I say, "I'm going to talk to David."


	47. Chapter 47

TOBIAS

I drive straight through the city without stopping. Still, I'm agitated. It feels strange to travel these streets, pass these buildings, on four wheels rather than a train track. I prefer the train, where I feel all the energy and momentum running through my body, deep in my bones.

Tris presses her face to the cracked window, silent. At this time of night, there aren't many lights in use. So we see shadows of shadows, dark forms and shapes rising out of the black. I wonder what she is thinking. How it feels to see this city again after two and a half years. How different does it look through her eyes? And will that change in the light of day? Some days, I realize, even I forget what has changed and what hasn't.

We approach our old boundary line, where the fence used to be. I see her stiffen, muscles tense. And I feel the tension, too. This is the place where we once crossed from our old life into the new one. The physical barrier is gone, but the division is still there, inside. We are still trying to find where we fit. All of us. If I am still struggling with it, I know this must be even harder for Tris.

Before long we see an actual fence, topped with barbed wire and surrounding a great compound. The Bureau, as it was called. As I still call it. That's what it will always be to me, because I am not convinced that it merits a new name.

I drive up to the fence and stop just outside, the noise of the idling truck filling the night. The guards posted at the gate wave us through when Zeke flashes his identification. I follow his direction and park the truck to the side of the building. We all get out slowly, stretching achy, weary limbs. Then I climb into the back of the truck, digging through the black bags stored there. I find the one I want and toss it to the ground.

"Tris, Zeke, Christina, Caleb—put these on," I say, jumping to the ground and handing a bullet-proof vest to each.

Zeke, Christina, and Caleb pull theirs on, but Tris just stares at it, frowning. I worried she would be stubborn about this. It was the main thing we argued about, before. Trusting each other's judgment. Conceding when the other had a stronger argument or was more adamant about their position.

"Where's yours?" she asks almost accusingly. She looks at me steadily, her eyes piercing, waiting for a satisfactory answer.

"We only have four, and you need it more than I do. You've been through so much already. You'll be safer this way," I say, gently pushing it toward her. I put my hand on the side of her face, reassuring her. "If they have any here, and I have time, I'll get one. But this is more important, now. Please?" I ask, needing her to listen to me.

I can see the internal war raging behind her eyes. The desire to be strong. The desire for my safety. The desire to trust me. The desire to compromise. But compromise is difficult, sometimes, especially when you both want good things. And it takes a strong person to willingly set themselves aside. I learned that in Abnegation. I learned that from Tris. I am asking her to sacrifice what she wants for me, so that I can sacrifice myself, in this small way, for her.

I hold her face with both hands and say, "Please, do this for me. Just because I'm asking you to."

She finally nods, and I hold the vest so she can slide her arms into it. She grimaces slightly when I tighten the straps to make it snug. I kiss her forehead, avoiding the sensitive bandaged area, and exhale deeply, looking at my watch.

"Okay, Zeke—you find Amar and explain the situation. Ask him not to move forward with any wide-scale offensive before talking to me first. He and his men need to be prepared, but just for possible defensive action right now," I say quickly, mentally running through the check-list I've been forming as I shift from one foot to the other.

"Will do," he says, taking off for the entrance at a jog.

"Caleb, Christina—you find Cara. Let her know what's going on. Tell her that we got Tris, and we're working on a plan of action." Tris squeezes my hand, and I rub the back of my neck with the other. "Concentrate on securing any volatile compounds or liquids in the labs, if possible. Just as a precaution."

"That's smart," Caleb says, nodding, his hands in his pockets. "Good thinking."

Christina rolls her eyes. "Well, the Erudite weren't the only ones who knew how to use their brains," she smirks. "Come on, then," she says, smacking him on the back a little harder than necessary.

Tris has been leaning against my shoulder, so I carefully grip her arm to make sure she's steady as I turn to face her. "Are you ready to find David?" I ask, anxious. I don't want to rush her, but we don't have time to work up for a confrontation, either. Whatever needs to be said, needs to be said, now.

"Yes," she says firmly, lacing her fingers through mine. "Yes, I'm ready. I know what I'm going to say."

We walk quickly toward the entrance. I try to keep stride with her, supporting her with my arm, because I can tell by the way she moves unevenly that the effort must hurt. But she doesn't complain. Her face is set, her eyes focused.

We are almost at the security check-point when she turns to me and says, "Of course, if you have anything to add, that's fine, too. You're the one who really knows what's going on. I'm just here to—." She shrugs uncertainly.

I nod in understanding and step into the security box. I've spent all night rushing toward this conflict in hopes of preventing it. But now that the convergence is imminent, the words that will do that elude me.

The sleepy guard reads the scan and waves me through. Then Tris steps into the box and waits for her clearance. The guard yawns and covers his mouth, nodding at her proceed into the building. But she turns to him and says pointedly, "We need to see David."

The guard shakes his head, yawning, again. "Well, that's just not possible. He's in his private room by now. You'll have to wait until morning."

I pull my identification from my pocket and say forcefully, "Listen, I'm Tobias Johnson, here on behalf of Representative Johanna Reyes. We have urgent and important business to discuss with David. It _can't_ wait until morning. Morning will be too late."

The guard's eyes widen like he's having trouble processing my statement. Then he squints at my ID and rubs his chin. "Well, alright then. This way please," he says, heading off into the atrium. He mutters, "I'll be working night shifts for the rest of the month, for sure."

We follow him past the rock sculpture, which sits where it did when I last saw it. The water tank is gone, though. It's a monument to what they believe they have achieved and overcome, now. The lie they were told about their motivations and their intentions. Tris stares at it intensely, silent.

I wish I could read her mind, know what she's thinking. But she drags her eyes away and focuses on the back of the meandering guard in front of us. I grit my teeth, agitated by his pace. Clearly he misunderstood my use of the words "urgent" and "important." So we slowly follow him through a series of open areas and hallways to the private residences of the Bureau. Finally, he leads us to a door, exhales and tugs at his uniform, and knocks loudly.

He continues to knock intermittently until we hear footsteps and grumbling behind the door. The guard involuntarily backs away as the door swings open. There stands David, leaning heavily on a cane, hair disheveled and face full of sleep. "What is it," he says, demanding and irritable. "This had better be important."

"I was told that it is, sir," the guard stutters, smoothing his uniform, again. "So—I'll just leave you, then," he says, rushing off, his speed noticeably increased.

"Well?" says David expectantly, peering at us both through bleary eyes.

I have avoided any meetings with David since I last saw him after I thought Tris was dead. I had no desire to see the man I believed responsible for her death, especially since he wasn't made to suffer any consequences for it. And since David was still under the influence of the memory serum, his recall of that time is probably hazy. He might not recognize me at all. And he clearly doesn't recognize Tris. If he did, his reaction would have been much different, I'm sure of it.

I clear my throat and force myself to make introductions. "My name is Tobias Johnson. You've probably heard of me, even if you don't remember me. I work with Johanna Reyes. And this—," I tighten my hold on Tris, looking down at her. "This—is Tris Prior. She played a role in the memory reset a couple years ago. She's here to help me inform you of a developing situation that needs your attention," I say earnestly.

Some level of recognition lights in his tired eyes. His brow furrows, and he backs up a step, saying, "Well, come in, then."

We enter the room, and I take Tris directly to a chair. I stand beside her, drumming my fingers on the back of it. I have no idea what to expect from David or how long it will take to convince him to handle this situation—diplomatically—if at all possible.

He limps to a chair adjacent to Tris and says, gesturing to his leg, "You'll have to excuse me if I sit. Now, what's so important—Mr. Johnson," he says, lowering his body and tilting his head to the side, "that demanded my immediate attention? And what does the memory reset have to do with it?" He crosses his arms over his chest, waiting.

I look down at Tris, and she shakes her head. "You should go first," she says.

I take a deep breath and swallow, willing my agitation over the ticking time and my animosity toward David to remain in check so I can do what needs to be done, in spite of how I feel. I still don't know exactly where to start, so I decide to dive in head-first.

"David, Johanna and I have been closely monitoring the rebels' activity in the Fringe for awhile, now. Recently, the level of involvement among the people has increased sharply and at an alarming rate. We were informed a few days ago that they have planned a full-scale attack on the Bureau—for this morning."

David stares at me blankly, eyebrows raised. He almost laughs, but restrains himself. Instead he leans forward and says, incredulously, "If that were true, why didn't you warn us? Why did you wait until now to tell me? What with—a mere _hours_ until daylight," he says, running his eyes over the clock on the wall.

"Johanna and I agreed it was best to explain the impending threat in person. To—," I pause, unsure how best to temper my assessment of their judgment. "To ensure that no action was taken too rashly. To try and promote a peaceful resolution, rather than a violent one."

His mouth drops open momentarily, then he snaps it shut. He says angrily, "What are you talking about?"

"You're going to come under attack. A large one. Unlike what you've seen before. And considering the potential outcome and the history of decision-making her—," I begin, again, clutching the back of Tris' chair with my hand.

"So you thought _you_ would decide what was best for the people who live here. From afar," he interrupts, standing to his feet. "You and Johanna deprived us of the opportunity to be fully prepared to defend ourselves, because you were worried we wouldn't handle it the way you wanted? At best—that's irresponsible. And at worst—that's treacherous," he spits at me, frustrated.

He turns on his heel and limps hurriedly toward the door.

"Wait! Where are you going?" I say, running to grab his arm. I move between him and the door, blocking his way, my muscles tensed, adrenaline pumping. As always when confrontation is imminent.

"I'm going to the Weapon's Lab to evaluate our stock of supplies and make a logical decision regarding our defense," he says, trying to shake my hand from his arm. But he can't. My grip is like a vise. So he glares at me.

I slowly release his arm and stand, arms crossed over my chest. "_This _is why I had to be here. Because I knew this is what would happen, what all of you would want to do." I shake my head in frustration. "Don't you understand what will happen if you come out to meet them with the full force of your _weapons_? You will plunge this region into a war. Not to mention all the lives that will be lost—on both sides."

"Why should I consider _their_ lives? They're the ones about to attack us! And for what?!" he says, furious.

"Because you did something to them and never paid for it," says Tris in a low voice, speaking up from her seat behind him.

David turns, maddened, and says, "What? What did we do to them? We've been lobbying for equality between the GDs and GPs. For God sake, we don't even call them that anymore!" He throws his free hand up in the air.

"That's what you were told, David. Because it was a useful and convenient lie. But it's not the truth. It's not what really happened. And they're bitter. Understandably so," she says evenly, unflinching.

I know she's been waiting to confront him. I'm sure this conversation has played out in her mind over and over again. But even though I know her as well as I do, I don't know what she will say next. And every muscle and nerve in my body is tensed, waiting. Waiting for her to speak. Waiting for his reaction.

"A lie? I don't understand," he says, shifting his weight from foot to cane, impatient.

"You didn't want equality between the GDs and yourselves. You still thought they were damaged. You wanted to fix them. You were performing experiments on the city of Chicago in attempts to alter genetics, to correct what you considered—a problem. The problem of erratic, violent tendencies in _them_." She pauses, leaning forward in her seat, her hands gripping the armrests. "The problem, David, is that you were so desperate to protect the experiments that you were willing to erase the memories of an entire city just so you didn't have to let it go. Because you couldn't accept that the _real_ problem, was a different one entirely. One that you can't fix with memory serum," she says stonily.

David shakes his head, uncomprehending. "Wait—what?" he says, confused, shuffling backward until he hits a desk sitting against the wall and leans into it.

"The Fringe rebels are angry because you spent years telling them they were inferior, when they weren't. You were _all_ willing to do desperate, horrible things. You were capable of as much, and more," Tris says firmly, staring at him with unwavering eyes. "And yet _they_ are they ones without jobs, without food, without education. _They_ continue to suffer._ They_ see no real change from this manufactured equality. And you—," she stands and walks deliberately toward him, "you, got away with an 'accidental' memory reset. A memory reset that I initiated to stop you—right before you shot me."

David is stunned. His gaze drifts to the floor, eyes wide but unseeing. He runs a shaky hand over his head, wordlessly opening and closing his mouth.

"They're attacking you to get what they want. And you were willing to do the exact same thing," I say steadily, not moving an inch from where I jealously guard the door.

"What—what do you expect me to do, then?" he asks, looking up at me, helpless. "Do you expect us _not_ to fight back? What can we do to stop them?"

"I was working to get a school built in the Fringe. Something that would give them purpose. Something that would give them a sense of accomplishment. The tangible ability to improve their lives," I say, frustrated. I still believe it was a good plan. But it's not meant to be. We have to inspire in other ways, if we can. I rub my neck and continue, "But that's not going to happen. The government doesn't have the money for it. So I want to talk to them—and to the people, here. Maybe—."

Tris interrupts me, "Maybe the truth will set them free," she says, touching David lightly on the arm.

I nod to myself. A brave person is willing to consider the truth. A strong person accepts the truth about himself. And this isn't going to work unless they all understand they're the same.

"But why would that work? And why should I put the lives of all the people, here, at risk, so that GDs –er, Fringe rebels—can _maybe_ have a chance at a better future?" David asks, jamming his cane into the floor.

"It's what you wanted for my mother," says Tris urgently, her face full of restrained emotion. "You may not remember, but you _loved _my mother. You found _her_ in the Fringe. And even _before_ you knew about her supposedly superior genetics—when you saw her, struggling for her life, you wanted to save her. You wanted _her_ to have a future. You are capable of the worst atrocities, David. You have to accept that. We all have to accept it. But you are also capable of more," she says, squeezing his arm forcefully.

He looks down at her hand, stunned. "So—what is your plan, then?" he says, his voice cracking.

I brought Tris so that she could be a symbol of hope to the rebels in the Fringe. I didn't consider that she could be an even more powerful symbol of change to the people in the Bureau. But, of course, they need it, too. And what I never fully realized until this moment was what Tris has known all along. That you can't give people hope without giving them the truth, first. Tris always believed that the truth is what changes things. That's what she told me about releasing the Edith Prior video.

The question, then, is what you do with the truth, once you have it. Jeanine wanted to deny it. Evelyn wanted to control it. We want to embrace it. That's the only way to have hope for the future.

"Let us talk to the people of the Bureau. Let us give them the truth, too. Maybe then they will understand the root of the conflict and an offer of peace, _real_ peace, can be genuinely given. And, hopefully, genuinely accepted," I say earnestly, stepping away from the door to make a direct appeal before him. "Just give us a chance. You can have Amar and the police force in the background, at-the-ready, in case it's rejected. But let us try," I plead.

He nods slowly and limps over to the door. He lifts a hand and presses a button on the wall, sending a shrill alarm reverberating through the building. Alerting all the people to a problem and enacting emergency protocols. Calling them all to a central meeting point. And we will meet them, there.


	48. Chapter 48

TOBIAS

We walk hurriedly back toward the atrium. Tris breathes heavily beside me. So does David, limping quickly along with equally uneven strides. Tired people, fear evident on their faces, stream into the hallways, jostling us as they pass.

We pour into the atrium, converging on the rock sculpture at the center. Everyone is gathering around it, whispering frantically so that the noise is a loud drone echoing off the high ceilings. David pushes his way to the center of the mass, motioning for us to follow him. I guide Tris, shielding and protecting her with my arm.

He stands in front of the rock, raising both hands in the air. "Attention!" he yells loudly. "Attention! May I have everyone's attention, please!?" he yells, more loudly still.

Zeke lets loose a shrill whistle from somewhere along the wall's edge. My eyes roam, and I find him standing with Amar. He whistles, again. People continue to nudge and murmur nervously, looking around uneasily. But the chaos soon quiets to a low rumble.

"Thank you," David says wearily, putting his arms down and reclaiming his cane from the ground, where he hastily laid it. "We have some people here to give us an important announcement. A Tobias Johnson representing Johanna Reyes. And Tris Prior, who has intimate knowledge of the memory reset that occurred, here. Both are related. Please, please be quiet so you can hear what they have to say."

He steps to the side and leans on his cane, waiting for us. Tris and I walk forward, together. We turn around, and I look into the sea of anxious faces. I swallow and open my mouth to begin, but Tris starts to speak, her voice strong.

"The memory reset that occurred two and a half years ago wasn't an accident. It was intentional. And I'll tell you why," she begins, leaning away from me so that she can stand straight, resolute. A chorus of confused whispers rises around her.

"It was long believed that some people were damaged, genetically damaged, and others were not. Those who were not were more pure. Superior. The people who worked here—many of you—participated in experiments that tried to fix these problems, correct these genetic mistakes, by preserving the healed genes that resulted for the benefit of the entire population," she says, holding her side. She frowns, takes a deep breath, and continues.

"The problem, is that in order to preserve these select people for the gene pool, you were all willing to watch many, many other people die—and do almost nothing about it," she says harshly, scanning the crowd with her eyes. "You were so desperate to keep this experiment from breaking apart, that you were going to drop memory serum into the atmosphere above the city of Chicago, resetting the entire population in order to end the violence, there," she says, swaying where she stands.

"There wasn't enough time to persuade your leaders against it, and no one believed you would change if we tried. So I, and some others, released the memory serum, here. On purpose. To stop you." Tris says to stunned silence.

I see confused faces turning angry. So I call out, desperate, "Wait! Let her finish. Let her finish!" I nod for Tris to go on, quickly.

"You were all capable of the same violence that you wanted to correct in others. You told them they weren't as good as you. That they were damaged. But you are, too," she says, determined, her face hard. "You never wanted to make them equal. That was a lie you were told after the memory reset. You were told the truth about our history, but not the truth about _yourselves_. And the rebels in the Fringe—the ones who have suffered most—do not believe you, or anyone else, has really changed. They are angry—and they are going to attack the Bureau, today," she says, impassioned, closing her eyes.

"What?!" someone yells frantically from amidst the crowd. "An attack? Today?! What are we going to do about it? Where are we supposed to go?!"

Cries and shouts rise into the heavy air, and Tris sways, again. I can see that the force of her exertion is making her light-headed, wearing her down. So I step beside her, offering my support, whether she wants it or not. I hold onto her and look around at all the mixed reactions. Panic. Confusion. Fear. Anger. Betrayal. I look up at the rock looming behind us. It bears down upon us like the conflict I'm not sure we can avoid.

To the people at the Bureau, the rock represented the problem of genetic damage, the reason for the existence of the experiments. And the water that used to sit above it represented their long-suffering commitment to chip away at the problem. Except, they were working on the wrong problem. The problem is in each of us.

It wasn't accurate for the water to trickle down on just the isolated parts they wanted to address, the parts they wanted to see and acknowledge. But letting it wash over the rock all at once wasn't right either, if people thought they could pretend the damage never existed at all. It didn't wash away the real damage that had been left behind. It's not that easy. Because the water never touched the problem at the heart of the conflict—that we all needed to be washed.

I shake my head, unsure how to help them understand. But I have to try and help them, anyway. I won't stand by and do nothing the way they did when our city was under attack. When our families were being murdered.

"We came to help you! Please, know that," I shout, holding a hand high in the air, hoping to get their attention like David did. "We just wanted you to know the truth so you would understand—so you would understand why they're coming. So you would understand why we want to try and come to a peaceful agreement, finally. Rather than just run out with guns and serums, killing and injuring even more people. Causing even more damage," I yell loudly, shifting from foot to foot anxiously.

"How are you going to do that?" yells a frightened voice from the middle of the gathering. "How will you get them to leave peacefully?"

I look down at Tris. Our eyes meet. The concern and uncertainty—and fear—in her eyes mirrors my own. I hug her tightly and say, "I am going to try and broker a disc—."

My words are cut off by a shower of glass shattering all around us as an incessant spray of bullets rains down upon the Bureau from the outside.

I yell, "Everybody down!" and throw my body to the floor, pulling Tris down with me.


	49. Chapter 49

TRIS

The gunfire ceases. The sound of crashing glass around us stops. I hear moans and crying from the massive huddle of people spread around the atrium. My cheek is cold against the tile floor, and pain shoots through my ribs from being slammed into it.

I dare to lift my head and look around. In the dim light beyond the compound I see a line emerging. It's moving toward us, quickly, evenly. It's a line of people—the rebels from the Fringe. I can't see their faces from this distance, but I know they are all determined. And they are all armed.

I turn my head to the right, searching for Tobias. I feel his arms around me, but I want to see his face.

But he's not looking at me. He watches the converging mass, the line that moves ever closer over the open ground, threatening to overtake us like a swarm. And then, before I can think to grab on to him, to try and stop him—as though I ever could, even at my strongest—he pushes his legs beneath him like a bunched coil and springs from my side.

I watch, horrified, as he bounds through the prostrate crowd. He picks his way quickly around the people. Running toward the front of exposed building. Running directly into the oncoming attack. Completely vulnerable.

"No, Tobias! No!" I yell after him, pushing myself to my knees though pain cuts through my side. But he doesn't hear me. Or he chooses not to stop.

I stand slowly and try to follow his path, picking my way around the people on the floor. I am slowed in my progress, because I am constantly having to watch my unsteady feet. And because I can't tear my eyes away from Tobias for more than a few seconds at a time.

He stops about ten feet shy of the barbed-wire fence, and the approaching rebels do the same. In a coordinated effort, a number of their contingent move forward in unison carrying heavy-duty wire cutters. They are going to take down the fence. And they are confident enough in their numbers, weapons, and abilities to take the time to do it. I shudder.

Tobias sees they are temporarily stalled and takes the opportunity to address them, shouting to all who will listen. "We don't want to fight you, today. So please, wait. You might not consider these people innocent. But are you willing to kill them in cold-blood? Are you_ really _willing to do that?" he asks desperately, his hands outstretched.

The rebels continue with their work, methodically moving as one, clipping wire after wire.

The people who have their wits about them, and are physically able, begin running back into the depths of the compound. I see Caleb and Cara and others move forward quickly, helping those who are injured or frozen with fear to move out of the immediate line of fire. They are helped to nearby hallways, bathrooms, and recesses. I see Zeke and Amar and the other officers positioning themselves in a defensive formation at the entrance to the building.

This can't be happening. And Tobias is right in the middle of it.

My body is suddenly ravaged by something worse than any pain I've ever felt. It's almost overwhelming in its debilitation. I struggle to breathe. And I'm already struggling for that. I wonder if this is how Tobias felt every time he thought I was going to die. The only thought that runs through my head, now, is that he can't leave me. He can't.

I finally make my way through the throng of people and am about to use whatever strength I have left to break through the line of police, when a hand grabs my arm. I am yanked backwards and turned face to face with—David.

"Let me go," I say vehemently, working to free my arm from his grasp. "Let me go to him."

David's eyes are wide but determined. Still, his voices wavers when he says, "Tell him—tell him to let _me_ talk to them." He swallows with great effort. "I want to talk to them."

I stare into his eyes, searching. Wondering what he will say—and why.

"Please. What you said—I needed to hear it. And I need to talk to them. Tell him," he says, still holding my arm firmly. Pleading.

I see the resolve in his face, and I nod. He immediately releases me, and I push my body forward. I deny the pain in my ribs and my head. I shove through the line of people in front of me and run toward Tobias. I run until I slam into his back. He turns around, stunned. His eyes fill with fear. Fear for me.

"What are you doing? Tris, what are you thinking?" he pours out in a rush, grabbing my shoulders, almost shaking me.

I look over his shoulder. The rebels have started peeling the fence down. And it's coming. Slowly, but surely. Soon there will be nothing standing in their way. Nothing but Tobias—and me.

I reach up to his face, though it cuts like a knife to do it. I hold his face, tight, and I hold his eyes tighter. "Tobias, David wants to talk to them. Let him do it. We have nothing to lose," I say urgently.

He shakes his head, frustrated. "No, that will just make things wor—," he says, agitated, placing his hands over mine.

"Tobias, listen to me. You wanted me to trust you this morning. And I did. Now trust _me_. Trust my judgment," I say, my breath coming in rasps, now.

I feel so light-headed. But I can't leave. I won't leave. He _has_ to listen to me. This is hard for him, I know. But if he's ever going to trust my judgment, this is the time.

He looks deep into my eyes. For what, I don't know. But he finally nods, so I turn to yell, "David, come! Hurry! Come!"

David limps rapidly from behind the line of armed officers. He stops when he reaches us and looks at me with frightened eyes. I give him a nod of encouragement. So he takes another step forward and clears his throat.

Then Tobias' head jerks toward a spot in the mass of rebels that I don't see, and he throws his body toward David. Just as a shot rings out.

My heart stops and time stands still. I watch them fall to the ground in a heap. I run forward and collapse beside them. My hands are frenzied. Searching for—searching for life. I roll Tobias off of David, letting out a loud, wrenching cry as my ribs crack inside me. I see dark red spreading over his shoulder, absorbed into his shirt, changing its color and make-up, forever.

"Oh, no, Tobias. No," I whisper, pressing my lips to his forehead, his eyes, his lips.

He is breathing. I feel it in my mouth. It is all I care about.

"Wait!" I hear a firm voice call out from the line of rebels, who have now pulled the last length of fence to the ground.

A man steps forward. One I don't recognize. But Tobias rolls his head toward the man and croaks, "Rafi?"

"Speak, now," Rafi orders David, his arms crossed. "I will let you speak because of what this man has done. But then—get out of our way," he says, his face hard.

David struggles to get his cane beneath him and pushes himself to his feet. He's visibly shaken. The cane vibrates beneath his trembling hand. He clears his throat, again, and says nervously, "I wanted to say—we are sorry. We are sorry for what we have done. We are _not_ any better, any different."

His eyes scan the crowd of rebels on our doorstep. He swallows. "I want to make amends. I want—," he pauses, looking over his shoulder at the Bureau behind him. "I want to offer you a school. Here. In the compound. It's close to where you live. We have plenty of room for whoever would desire to come. Please," he pleads, "you would be more than welcome."

Rafi doesn't say anything. But he doesn't move either. He looks us over, considering.

"You can keep fighting," Tobias speaks up, earnestly. Quietly. Loud enough for Rafi to hear. "You can keep fighting. But fight like Tris did. I know you know who she is," he pauses, and I hold his hand tightly, like I will never let go.

He keeps talking, unwilling to stop as long as they will listen. "But not fighting, like_ this_, to destroy. Not more violence. That's what you've always done. What they've always done. You _both_ have that in you. You always wanted to be the same—and you are. You are both capable of terrible things, things that you justify. The hard truth is that you wanted to believe that you weren't damaged. I wanted to believe I wasn't damaged. But—in some ways we are."

Tobias tries to sit up, so I help him. David pulls off his shirt and hands it to me. I press it to Tobias' shoulder, hard. He moans. I look at David, pale and shivering in the morning cold. We are not moving, and Rafi is not moving, yet. Yet.

Tobias goes on, while he can. Because he can. "So fight to be better, to make the better choices. To forgive when it's not easy and you don't want to. To move on," he says forcefully. I press my lips to his temple.

He implores them, "Hope that it's possible to not live the way you've always lived, to hate the way you have always hated. _She _came back, here. Returning to the people who almost destroyed our city, who almost _killed_ her, to help me stop this conflict. If she could do that, even when they didn't deserve it, even when they hadn't asked for it, what can you do? What will you do? Now you have a chance. A _real_ chance. Take it!"

We sit in silence, broken only by the ragged breathing all around us. Tobias, breathing. The tense, shallow breathing of the men behind me. On edge, poised and waiting. And the breathing of the rebels before me, heavy with their exertion and their energy.

"You will give us a school? Here?" Rafi asks, unsure, unmoving.

"Yes, yes. Right here!" David says quickly, pointing to the Bureau with his cane.

Rafi turns, his eyes scanning the crowd of rebels. As his head slowly rotates, I see one nod after another, after another, after another. He looks for agreement. And he finds it.

"We will accept your offer," says Rafi, striding forward with his hand outstretched. He shakes David's hand firmly. Then he says with narrowed eyes, "And then, you and I will play cards."

Tobias exhales in relief. He lowers himself carefully back down to the ground, resting. I lay on his chest, sheltering him with my body. It's over. It's finally over.

_Well_, I correct myself,_ it's__ over—today_.

So much of life is a process. It goes on until you die. That's how things work. It's a series of choices, one after another.

You don't love someone well right away. You learn to do it. Forgiveness is that way, too. You decide to forgive. Then you choose it, again and again, after that. You don't hold an offense against that person any longer. And it's hard. It's definitely not easy, like resetting with memory serum. But that type of change isn't real, anyway.

Edith Prior said, "There is much I am happy to forget." I imagine we would all say the same. But that's just the mind, not the heart. The heart is the root, where we are _all_ damaged. Understanding that, the evil within us, is what gives us compassion. It's what allows us to forgive and to love. Because it's not about what we deserve or what someone else deserves. You choose it. Then you continue in it.

I will continue choosing this until the end. Until _my_ end. And I'm not there, yet.

When I thought I _was _there—dying—I saw my mother. I asked her if my work was done. And I was glad, then, to think I was finished. But I know now that I am not done, yet. There is still so much more work for me to do. Tobias and I will do it together. And so I think, my mother will not mind me staying here a little while longer.


	50. Chapter 50

TOBIAS

I'm in a hurry to leave the office. Because I'm meeting Tris. I haven't seen her since yesterday. But it feels like so much longer. I'm still amazed how much perspective changes all kinds of things—like time, for one.

I stopped by Christina's apartment after work last night and stayed for dinner. Tris has moved in with her, for now, and she seems content. Evelyn will be moving out of mine in about a month, after she saves her first month's rent now that she's an official train operator. Zeke thought I should let Tris move in with me, then. But I can wait for that. I'm still being wise, though Zeke wouldn't understand.

And she's still adjusting to the new world and how she fits in it. She hasn't decided what she wants to do, yet—for work. But I think it's good for her to take her time. We actually have that, now. And I know whatever she decides, she'll be good at it. That's just how she is. I don't think she knows how to fail.

I wouldn't be surprised if she ends up working at the Bureau in some capacity. Johanna has already expressed her support, if that's what Tris chooses. A liaison or leadership position. David seems eager to work with her. And Rafi respects her, too. She inspires everyone, especially me.

I thought she would simply inspire the rebels from the Fringe to forgive and move forward. But she did it differently. She did more than that. She reached out to David when he didn't deserve it, and it freed him to admit who he was and reach out to others. She brought _everyone _to the same place. Even me. And we all needed it. We all needed truth, forgiveness, and hope.

Hope is new, for me. For so long I felt broken, then damaged, then, sometimes, lost. But not anymore. She says that I am her anchor. If that's true, then she is my compass. I understand, better, the ways in which I need mending. And she helps give me direction.

So I am hopeful for the life we will share together, soon. Very soon. We will marry at the end of the summer, I think. When she is settled and the world is warm and inviting, welcoming us into it, together.

I climb up to the top level of the Hancock Building. Tris is waiting for me, welcoming me, now. Zeke and Christina are here, too.

I close my eyes and shudder. I can't help remembering the last time I was here. When I thought I was saying good-bye for the last time. But I put that aside in my mind. I am here, again. And she is here. And I smile. Because I don't care how high I have to climb, I will go anywhere for her.

I wrap my arms around her and press my lips to hers. My mouth opens, and I inhale her breath. It fills me and makes me light. It fills every part of me.

"You know," I breathe, "you are the _only_ person that could ever get me up here."

"I think you already proved that, once," she says, sinking into me and kissing my neck. "Hopefully, this time you'll enjoy it a little more."

"I highly doubt that," I say honestly, laughing. I let my eyes scan the skyline of Chicago, and I exhale. I exhale away all of my anxiety. I am here, and she is steady.

"So," Zeke says grinning, grabbing the harness on the zip-line, "Who wants to go first?"

I imagine what we would look like from the window of my office. _Like birds_, I think.

"I'll go first," I say decidedly, pressing my lips against the pink scar on her forehead.

"Really?" Tris asks, raising her eyebrows and smirking at me. She presses against me and whispers, "You're really going to leave me?"

I close my eyes and smile. When I open them, she's smiling back at me. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. And I still can't believe the way she looks at me. I am undone and remade all at once.

I nod and reach for the harness, before I can change my mind. "Yes," I say, certain. "I'm going first. But only because I want to see you fly—and be there to catch you when you land."

The End


End file.
